


2020 CR Fics

by ModernDayBard



Series: CR Ficlets/Drabbles [3]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Domestic Fluff, Dreams and Nightmares, F/F, F/M, Foreshadowing, Grief/Loss, I will update tags as I write, Little bit of hurt/comfort, M/M, Magical Shenanigans, One Shot Collection, Post-Canon, Pre-Stream (Critical Role), a little character study i guess, briarwood arc sort of, campaign one overview, character growth/journey reflections, class-swap AU, coming back from the dead is not easy, darrington brigade - Freeform, de rolo quarter-elves, found family takes care of each other, hag deals, life advice from grog strongjaw, mighty nein ships only in one chapter so far, molly/yasha actual siblings AU, mothering rogue style, pyrah, shorthalt-trickfoot gnome babies, slayer's cake, they were just for the college AU, vox machina kids, will be both campaigns eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-22 10:17:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 32
Words: 24,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22114411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ModernDayBard/pseuds/ModernDayBard
Summary: Challenge to myself: write at least (1) ficlet every week for the entire year. A major portion of these will be Critical Role, because I know myself. Find them here!Campaign 1: Chapter 2, 4, 5, 8, 10, 12,  14, 16, 18, 20, 22, 24, 26, 28, &30Campaign 2: Chapter 1, 3,  6, 7, 9, 11, 13, 15, 17, 19,  21, 23, 25, 27, 29, & 31
Relationships: Caduceus Clay/Fjord, Jester Lavorre/Beauregard Lionett, Keyleth/Vax'ildan (Critical Role), Mollymauk Tealeaf/Caleb Widogast, Percival "Percy" Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III/Vex'ahlia, Scanlan Shorthalt/Pike Trickfoot, Taryon Darrington/Lawrence, Yasha/Zuala (Critical Role), Zahra Hydris/Kashaw Vesh
Series: CR Ficlets/Drabbles [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559092
Comments: 69
Kudos: 137





	1. Mollymauk: The Fear You Flee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 2  
> Character: Mollymauk Tealeaf
> 
> The darkened labyrinth holds traps and deadly dangers; and something worse for one of the Mighty Nein

Mollymauk woke up with no idea where he was nor how he’d gotten there—not for the first time, to be fair, but unless a trip went badly wrong or a hangover was particularly troublesome, the lavender tiefling normally experienced a sort of dazed contentment alongside the foggy confusion. Now, though, all he felt was heart-pounding terror and the desperate need to—to—

He couldn’t remember that, either, but he _knew_ the others were counting on him to do it, and— _*The others!*_

Molly bolted to his feet, his Infernal darkvision casting the long hallway in shades of dark red, making each block of stone appear to be covered in blood. The bloodhunter felt his skin itch and crawl, every nerve on high alert and every instinct screaming for him to _go_ and _move_ and _do,_ but no clear sense of where or why or what.

Was he losing his memory—himself—again, this time while alive and with agonizing slowness? _*No—no. that **can’t** be. You’re just confused. Maybe a spell? Just find the others—they’ll know what’s happening. Just find them. Just find them.*_

As soon as the thought came to his mind, every over-stretched nerve latched on to it, and all his pulsing, driving, maddening energy turned to that goal—find the others, that was _all_ that mattered. Molly started to run, coat flapping behind him, sabers in hand, heart pounding in his throat. There was no care, caution, or even shred of rational thought as he tore down the hall—if he could’ve forced enough air into constricted lungs, he’d have begun shouting for them. He had no idea _why_ he was so afraid, _what_ was so urgent, but he _knew_ it was real as surely as he _knew_ that he was Mollymauk Tealeaf. ( _And how long would that last?_ )

One intersection, the bloodhunter ran left, another, right, and he stumbled to a fumbling halt as he came across the first other living person he’d seen in the dark labyrinth. The goblinoid figure in the center of the hallway straightened from its hunched position, shoulders heaving with ragged, panting breaths, listing to one side, one arm wrapped across an obviously injured torso, but unmistakably Nott the Brave. Gasping out a bark of relieved laughter, Molly staggered towards her, stopping five feet short as she glared at him in nothing less than pure, venomous hatred, loaded crossbow leveled at his chest.

Molly stared, his mind still too foggy and fuzzy to process what was happening, and knelt closer to her height. “Nott—”

“You _left_ him,” the rogue snarled, angrier than he had ever heard her be at anyone. “You _abandoned_ my boy! You asked me to trust you— _he_ trusted you—and you _left_ him!”

Was that it? Was that the crucial fact that he _knew_ he’d forgotten—the thing that he knew he _had_ to do? Then why wasn’t he with the wizard? He’d _never_ have left him—anyone—behind, especially if he’d been specifically tasked with or had made a point of promising to protect them. (…Never have left them if they were alive—and he’d never have let that happen while he was still standing—right?) “Nott—I—I—”

While he was still fumbling for the words that would not come, she hissed at him, took one step backwards, away from him, then disappeared as the stone crumbled beneath her. Molly threw himself forward, arms outstretched, but she vanished beyond his grasp as he crashed to the stone, half-fallen into the newly-revealed pit-trap himself, too late. All he could hear was a high-pitched tonal ringing in his ears as his darkvision painted a too-clear of her tiny body broken and impaled on the cruel spikes that covered the bottom of the trap, and her open but unseeing eyes still holding her final accusation—‘your fault’.

He scrambled backwards, to his knees, to his feet, still staring into the pit even though he could no longer see the grisly sight at its bottom. He backed away, then broke into a run once more as panic clawed its way back up his throat. He was running again—towards the others, away from her corpse: who could say?—Turn after turn without noting any direction.

He collided with something—someone—warm, sending both to the stone floor. Molly choked back a strangled cry as he realized it was Fjord he’d bowled over and tumbled over, and that he’d come up with the half-orc’s blood smeared down the front of his coat and armor. He crawled back to the other man, hands shaking as he sat the warlock up and saw where all the blood had come from: Fjord’s right arm and a large portion of his torso on that side was _gone_ —torn away in a large, jagged wound that could only be some kind of a bite—and the half-orc was choking, coughing up more of his own blood, horrible, gasping wet breaths echoing down the corridor of uncaring stone.

Fjord’s eyes, already glazing over, locked onto Molly’s, narrowing as he rasped out what would be his final words: “You…went off…the…plan…” With a surge of strength that the tiefling was not expecting, Fjord pushed with his remaining arm, shoving Molly away as a final choking fit seized him—fighting for a breath he would never get back.

Silence fell over the now-still form, and Mollymauk swallowed hard, his own breaths coming jagged and rapid as he fought back the urge to scream—to hurl—as every fiber of his being was pulsing, blazing with the inexplicable _need_ to keep moving, to find the others, to not be alone in the dark and the earthandthesmellofbloodanddeathand—

Molly had no idea how long he had been running when he smelled smoke and burnt cloth and _hair_ and _flesh_ , and saw what remained of their wizard staggering and stumbling out of a side hallway towards him.

“Mister…Mollymauk…” the charred husk croaked in a too-familiar Zemnian accent. It took another step towards him, and for the first time in a long time, Molly backed away from Caleb, not afraid of the wizard, but of the accusation he’d already come to expect.

One blue eye locked on to Molly’s ruby gaze, and the tiefling felt paralyzed—trapped, unable to look away. “You were…were not…there. …I…went away…and you didn’t…you... _no_ one was there…to bring me back…”

As if that message had been all that was keeping him going, the burnt remains of the human collapsed, and didn’t get back up.

This time, the bloodhunter couldn’t keep from retching and vomiting beside the corpse of a friend. Every loss, every accusation, plunged daggers into his psyche, wrenching away at his rapidly waning control and semblance of rationality. With every fallen member of the Mighty Nein, it felt like his grasp on his mind, his identity, was weakening, leaving him tenuously close to toppling back into the void and the dark and the empt—

**_*NO!*_ **

He wouldn’t—he _couldn’t_ lose Mollymauk Tealeaf (though a vicious whisper in the back of his mind dared to ask what the point was in remaining himself if everyone who knew about and cared for him was dead and gone).

“Molly!” Jester’s voice rang out, but the shout was followed by a horrible, rasping coughing fit.

The lavender tiefling froze, staring as not one but _two_ blue(/blue-robed) figures emerged in front of him, resolving into a bloody and battered Beau trying to support a horribly gashed and wounded Jester. Worse, the cleric’s injuries were tinged a sickly, venomous green and every handful of steps she stopped to cough, choke, or retch.

He watched his fellow tiefling drop as the girls reached him, slipping from Beau’s grasp even before the monk could react. Molly could feel the fever from whatever poison was killing Jester before he even touched her, and her violet eyes were wide with child-like confusion and unshed tears. “Why weren’t you there, Molly? Did-did you forget me?”

He wanted to reassure her—wanted to offer her some final comfort, at least—wanted to tell her that he could _never_ : But the words weren’t coming—were they there at all? Or had they abandoned him again like they had before—like he had abandoned his friends when they needed him most?

Jester slipped away from them, her final question forever unanswered, and that was almost worse than the look on Beau’s face when he looked up at her over the cleric’s body.

“This is _your_ fucking fault, asshole,” Beau spat, never one to mince words or soften blows.

Then she surged forward, and Molly closed his eyes, waiting for the punches she was sure to throw, almost wanting her to knock him down, knock him out, make this all _stop_. But the _twang_ of bowstring and the _thwack_ of arrows sinking into the flesh of a monk too tired and too out of position to catch them, but with enough time to knock him out of the way of, told him that his torment was not yet at an end.

He staggered, stumbling away from the two dead girls, fighting for breaths between sobs even as he kept running, the all-consuming drive to _run_ , the mindless panic driving him mercilessly onwards even as grief and guilt and horror sent tears coursing down his face.

“Molly.”

The tiefling froze, blood turned to ice and flesh to stone as _her_ voice came softly from behind him. _*No, please. **Please!** *_ Losing her like he’d just lost all the others probably _would_ be the end of his—at least, of Mollymauk Tealeaf. She was so inextricably bound up in him becoming himself; he _couldn’t_ watch her die, too.

But it was _Yasha_ —surely nothing could kill her, even in this hellish maze. If they stuck together, maybe it would finally stop feeling like he was falling all to pieces. She could anchor him, just like she always did.

That flare of hope faded as soon as he turned his head.

“Molly, are you there?”

Her two-colored eyes were now both black as pitch, but not because of any ‘dark angel’ transformation. Rather, they were darkened, spilling blood like tears down her pale face, while still more blood flowed from her neck, her hand—every place _he_ had one of those damn red eyes, _she_ was bleeding from, weakening too rapidly even for that amount of blood loss—stumbling to her knees, her now-sightless eyes still locked onto his.

“Are you there? I came back, and you weren’t there.”

Then she fell, face-first, all of the strength that she had and that she was siphoned off by some dark power. (His? Lucien’s? Another’s _like_ his? Did the distinction matter at all?) Animal instincts—perhaps the only ‘mind’ left to him, now—still demanded that he run from this place, but his over-tired body and over-wrought mind could _not;_ and the tiefling, now completely, _devastatingly_ alone, could do no more than drop to his knees in front of the aasimar’s corpse and scream—

Once he started, he couldn’t stop.

* * *

“Molly!”

He was still screaming—still kneeling on the ground, head bowed ad face tear-streaked, heart racing and whole form shaking—but now the stone walls and floors were gone. It was bright daylight, now, he was outside, dirt beneath him, open air around him—

— _they_ were around him.

Jester crouched in front of him, violet eyes wide with concern, her hands on his shoulder, her closeness blocking most of the blood-stained battlefield from his view, but he could still see the rest of the Mighty Nein (all but Yasha—and he’d never hated any storm quite as much as he now did the one from two nights before that’d taken her from them yet again) clustered about them, all staring at him in some mix of shock and concern. All standing, all _alive_ and _whole_.

“Molly! Molly, can you hear me? That mean magic person hit you with a spell, right at the start of the fight, and you were just _standing_ there, so I though he, like, _stunned_ you or something and you would shake it off pretty quickly, but then you still weren’t moving and I couldn’t get over here during the fight. And then you were kneeling on the ground, and I thought that one of the bad guys had _killed_ you and I when I finally got over here you were _crying_ but I couldn’t get you to wake up and the fight was over and you were _screaming_ and Caleb said he thought the spell might’ve been, like, a _fear_ spell of some kind, so I tried dispelling it—did it work? Are you okay? I promise that all the bad guys are dead and Beau made sure that none of them got close enough to hit you for the _whole_ fight—I’m _really_ sorry I didn’t get rid of the spell earlier; I swear I didn’t _know_ what it was or how bad it was, or I would’ve—”

He cut her off with a hug, then—allowing himself a few more minutes of vulnerability, as it seemed that his fellow tiefling needed this as much as he did, right now. Later, the performer’s mask would return, and he’d pretend he was alright until he _was_. For now, though, it was enough to know that dark maze and all that had happened there existed nowhere else than his mind and memory.

* * *

_“Nothing more than a nightmare or a bad trip.”_

That was Molly’s story, and he was sticking to it until even _he_ believed it: first offered when Jester asked if he wanted her to use Sending to contact Yasha, and repeated as necessary in answer to concerned looks throughout the rest of the day. He appreciated their care, he supposed, but it was still hard to bear how much they’d seen of him falling apart, to say nothing of how _useless_ he’d been during the whole fucking fight.

Finally, though, they arrived back at the town, at the tavern, meaning that he would soon be able to let his uncharacteristic quiet be drowned out in good-natured revelry.

Before he could enter, Caleb stopped him with a tentative hand on his arm and a whisper, “I do not wish to overstep my place, Mr. Mollymauk, but my advice is to not stray too far from sober, this evening. In the aftermath of a fear spell—any form of one—it does not do to lose your grip on the present reality: those images, whatever they were, are still there. I am not saying do not drink at all—but you know your limits, and I would advise to stop well shy.”

Fuck. There went _that_ plan. But, if Caleb was right (and his manner was both too apologetic and too certain _not_ to be speaking from some kind of experience), then Molly appreciated the heads-up: that was _not_ a dream he could bear to live through twice. And, Caleb _had_ said he could still drink _some_ , so Molly slid up to the bar and tried to catch the barkeep’s attention. Before the woman noticed him, Beau appeared at his elbow.

“Hey, Molly: after that fight today, I was thinking—”

“That you wanted to buy my drinks for the evening? How uncharacteristically friendly of you, Beau. I wholeheartedly accept.”

Beau gaped, then scowled. “What? No. No! if anything, _you_ should be buying _my_ drinks—I did save your fucking ass today, after all.”

“Fair enough,” Molly granted with a deliberately flippant shrug. “We’ll buy each other’s, then, and call it even.”

“Asshole,” Beau growled, but dropped her coin before stalking away. Well, she’d find out sooner or later that Caleb’s warning meant that she would come out the better in their deal, but Molly wasn’t about to tell her now and spoil her bad mood.

Drink in hand, Molly joined his friends at their table, nursing the tankard much slower than his usual frenetic, exuberant pace as Jester chattered away beside him and the others failed to hide the fact that they were still watching him carefully, concerned.

He pretended not to notice.

Sometime after his focus wandered who-knows-where for who-knows-how-long, he was brought back to the present by Fjord’s drawled words, muttered low enough not to be overheard by the rest of the Mighty Nein: “Molly, if you feel the need to…uh, … _distract_ yourself, or something, tonight, I can ask Caleb and Nott if I can bunk up with them for the night. Give you some space.”

Actually, the thought hadn’t crossed his mind—well, he hadn’t _entertained_ it—but the tiefling couldn’t explain his true motives for that without revealing too much of what he had seen, why _these_ were the people he wanted close tonight, rather than some stranger(s). (It was a pity they weren’t camping that night—forced to cluster close for security and/or warmth, but the half-orc’s snores should be enough of an anchor of normalcy. _Should_ be.) “Ah, don’t worry about it—tonight. But if I can take a rain check on the offer…” He let the thought trail off, flashed the warlock a smile, and was rewarded by a blush and a suddenly tense and award manner. Too easy. “Or maybe you’ll want in, next time?”

Ford stood, stammering some excuse about another round for the table, and Molly smirked, shaking his head as he muttered a joke to Jester in Infernal about her choice in blushing beauties.

And so the evening passed, the other five drifting from the table and back, usually (and unsubtly) leaving at least one of their numbers with the uncharacteristically subdued bloodhunter, who hadn’t left the table and was still on only his second drink. He’d tolerate it for tonight, but he’d not have them hovering starting tomorrow morning. Still, for now, it was good to have them close and easy to see or hear when a surge of panic briefly resurfaced and initially resisted his efforts to quash it.

At one point, Molly found himself alone at the table with Nott, the goblin rogue regarding him with a calculating, assessing expression that verged just a hair too close to that glare from his nightmare—likely just sizing up his current state, but he read it different, tinged with echoes of an accusation never made in _this_ reality—yet.

“I’d never do it, you know,” he said, without initially realizing that he’d spoken—or _what_.

Nott’s expression turned to one of pure confusion. “Never do what?”

 _*Shit.*_ Well, she seemed pretty close to drunk, and he was sober enough to skirt the worst of it—most of it—wasn’t he? “Abandon hi—them. You. Any of you. That’s the rule: you don’t leave people behind, no matter what.” He suddenly found the grain of the table _fascinating,_ but looked up as Nott leaned over, topping up his tankard from her magical flask.

“I think I know that, now. Didn’t at first,” she was honest enough to admit.

Molly shrugged, took a sip. _*Gods, that’s **awful.** *_ It was _perfect_. And familiar—and too strong. She must not have heard Caleb’s warning and been slipping more into his tankard all evening—probably thinking it would help him take the edge off. Well, she meant well. Here’s hoping Caleb was wrong, just this one time. “I wasn’t much help today, I know. But for the record—I don’t intend to just stand by and let something terrible happen, if it starts to.” The words, ‘I’d die first’ weren’t spoken that night, but they were heard, all the same.

...

And later, on a lonely northern road, they were remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funnily enough, I originally stopped the story shortly after the hug from Jester, then felt I might be able to make it end a little happier if I included a little bit of each of the Nein rallying around Molly…only to find out that my twisted little mind managed to contrive to make it end sadder that way. Oops.  
> (I promise: not all will be this dark/sad/terrible. I don’t have set plans beyond doing one sad and one happy one for each member of the Mighty Nein AND Vox Machina—but there ARE supposed to be happy ones, so there’s that.)


	2. Vax'ildan: Yours to Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 1  
> Character: Vax'ildan
> 
> In all their adventures...did he ever really notice what as happening to him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a strong contender for my C2 favorite character to my C1 favorite—and an only marginally happier ficlet. Oops.

His world had been so small, once.

As a child, it had fit into a one-room hovel—and when he and Vex’ahlia had been taken away, it shrank rather than expanded. It did not grow again (save for one once-tiny, furry addition that his sister would never part with) for many years thereafter: he had Vex’ahlia, the other half of the whole they’d always been, and he had Trinket, who he’d initially accepted for Vex’s sake alone, but had quickly come to care for. Vax’ildan didn’t need anyone else; it was easier to protect a smaller world, after all.

Even after— _well_ after—they’d met the others, recovered Grog, found Pike and Percy, become the S.H.I.T.s, his world did not grow—Vax allied himself with these people, worked with these people, even regarded these people fondly (usually), but they were not _his_ , not a part of him. He could walk away, if he had to (or so he told himself).

Then Pike died in the claws of a demon, and it felt as though something had been torn from his care, leaving a bloody, gaping wound. They managed to bring her back, but not to banish the questions he was beginning to ask of himself. Vox Machina, as they were now called, were gifted a keep—a home, or, at least, a potential one—and the questions, the thoughts, only deepened.

Still, distractions enough followed with the quests beneath Kraghammer and around Vasselheim—as much as the party’s bonds were unquestioningly deepening, there was neither time nor need to examine the implications of that fact—yet.

Then came word of the Briarwoods, the painful truth of Percival’s past, and, quite without realizing it, Vax followed the human to the horrors of Whitestone simply because he asked. (It’s what you do for your own, after all.) And though new doubts, fed by shadows and demons, did battle with some of his growing convictions, others he at last accepted—including his feelings for a certain druid.

Could he walk away now, if Vex would follow? What were these people to him? Everything that had once been neatly defined was now blurring, and Vax wondered if he’d unknowingly trapped himself, bound himself—and was that even necessarily a bad thing?

Clarity came through dragon-fire and a purpose re-forged, then was lost again in a deal in a sunken tomb—and, oh, how he would so desperately scramble for it as days became weeks, became months, as they crossed the world gathering allies, weapons, growing stronger as themselves, as a group. Before Glintshore, Vax already knew: his world had grown enough, at least, to fit all of them within it, and it fell to him to keep them safe. Thordak had taken half his world from him before, but **not. This time.**

…

…No. No, this time, one of his own walked away under their own power, of their own will, and left a aching hollow he’d grapple with for a long, long time to come.

Then came another, and the old instinct to push away, to deny a place, flared strong but faded much quicker, now. Before a year was passed, Taryon was so much one of them, a part of his world, that Vax was willing to fight Howaardt Darrington for his son’s sake (and, perhaps even more telling: willing to _not_ fight him for the same reason).

By now, he had openly accepted his expanded world; he welcomed the prodigal back, open-armed, ready to forgive in order to have those dearest him near to him once more. But darker factors in the world refused to let happiness be, threatening to rend the world— _his_ world—apart forever.

No.

Not if he could help it.

(And he _could_ help it.)

_Let me go back and help them._

…

Once upon a time, Vax’ildan would not have sacrificed himself for anyone but his sister.

(Once upon a time, he had offered himself in her place.)

Once upon his time, Vax’ildan would’ve fought for no one’s life besides his own and Vex’ahlia’s.

(Once upon a time, he had so much less to lose.)

…

Once upon a time, his world had been so small.

…Not any more.


	3. Yasha: Always Meant to Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 2  
> Character: Yasha Nydoorin
> 
> In another, very different world, so much still-somehow-looked the same...

No one was surprised the baby was a tiefling—Honestly, Kashaw and Zahra would’ve been more surprised if their son _hadn’t_ been—but the lavender skin was unexpected, as were the handful of eye-shaped red spots on the infant’s neck, shoulder, hand, etc. Still, he was here, he was healthy and alive (no small miracle, given how close all three had come to dying in the battle against Vecna)—he was _perfect._

Lucien (“just a placeholder name,” Zahra had insisted; “he’ll choose his own once he has a better sense of himself.”) was a happy baby, if not an easy one. Even early on he liked people, and didn’t fuss about which of them or their friends was holding him, but the _instant_ he could crawl about on his own, it took near-constant vigilance on the part of both of his parents to ensure that Lucien’s seemingly endless curiosity didn’t drive him into dangerous situations, places, and ‘good gods, Lucien _don’t put that in your mouth!_

Still, as Kashaw watched his son explore and learn so quickly, or play with Zahra as she sang and joked in rapid infernal, or when he held him close against his chest the few times Lucien was content to remain so still, holding him as he drifted to sleep, utterly content and so innocently trusting, Kash was struck again and again by the realization that this very joy he’d long considered out of his reach was somehow a reality.

Gods help the fool who tried to take it away from him.

* * *

(Actually, they didn’t.)

Kashaw and the then two-year-old Lucien were in the Vesper Timberland not far from Vasselheim’s walls gathering a few components needed for Zahra’ next commissioned creation. (Dangerous place for a toddler? Maybe, but preferable to leaving him home alone with Zahra being called out last-minute on a hunt for the Slayer’s Take. No matter: Luci knew to stay close when Kash used his ‘serious voice.)

Then came the blast of necrotic energy from the shadows at the edge of the clearing that caught Kash of guard and sent him crashing to the ground for a moment, and six dark-robed and hooded figures stepped into the open, five of them immediately moving to surround the temporarily-stunned human, the apparent leader snatching up the frightened tiefling toddler.

_“DADDY!!”_

His son’s terrified shriek ringing in his ears, Kashaw surged to his feet, spear in one hand, the other crackling with unholy holy energy as a rage he hadn’t felt since Vecna loomed filled him. He surged forward, pushing past and carving through the fools trying to stand in his way, never tearing his eyes from the man who still held Lucien, the stranger backpedaling and calling to his unfortunate fellows: “Death to the traitor; the Heir must be taken back to the Order!”

Those were the last words heard or spoken by the would-be attackers and their ringleader, as they had vastly underestimated both what Kashaw was capable of and willing to do under the circumstances. Scooping the now-sobbing but thankfully unharmed child into his arms, Kash let himself sink to his knees, clinging to his son as it washed over him all at once just how close he’d come to losing him.

Two tiny hands clung to his shirt and a little tail wrapped tightly around his arm as Lucien trembled in his grasp, but Kash’s blood ran cold as he glanced at one of the fallen attackers and saw a familiar symbol around his neck—

—the same one he carried. _Her_ symbol.

* * *

They’d spoken of an ‘Order’: the assumption had to be made that this—this _cult_ of Vesh’s had other groups, other members who’d try to attack them again.

No.

No, neither Kash nor Zahra were about to sit back and simply _wait_ for followers of a dark goddess to try to kill them and abduct their son—and their friends weren’t about to let them take on this fight alone.

They chose to relocate to Whitestone at Vex’s insistence until the danger had passed (it was the safest place both to use as a base of operations and to leave Lucien with the de Rolo children under Vex and Trinket’s watchful eyes when the ‘hunting party’ left to chase down one clump of enemies or another), and had the full arsenal of Vox Machina, plus the unexpected but welcome assistance of an apparently now adventure-ready Cassandra, to call upon in their hunt—even Taryon and his crew, when a fragment of Her cult was found (and subsequently annihilated) in Wildemount.

But at last, after a long year of rumor-chasing and fighting cultists, the last member of the last holdout was dead, and Kash still had 3 of his 5 ‘Speak with Dead’ questions left, and plenty of time on Pike’s ‘Zone of truth.’ Why not tie up a few lingering loose ends?

“What was your interest in my son, Lucien?”

The dead man’s expression didn’t—couldn’t—change. “At first, we thought that child was the Heir that She had whispered of. We came to realize that he is nothing more than the usurping spawn of the woman who took Her place with you—and sought to kill you all.”

Was it possible to kill a dead man again? Kash was tempted to see—so was Zahra, if the lashing tail was any indication—but there was still something important here. “What heir did ‘She’ speak of?”

“A child born of Her spirit and your mortal blood, who we were to find and raise and teach and train until the day when She could use their blood and nature to come fully into the world.” If a corpse could emote, the broken, breathy voice would’ve been saturated by a sickening devotion. “That was our highest purpose—and the Heir’s.”

“And where is this Heir?” It was a long shot—if the cult _had_ located this child (his child? He was still having trouble thinking clearly about that), then surely they would’ve taken them by now.

The corpse tensed, visibly fighting against the compulsion to speak—and to speak the truth—but divine (and ‘divine’) magics had already conquered its will.

“There were whispers—rumors—we were to investigate…a single life where there once was none, in the wastes where once She first displayed her power…”

Then the lifeless body fell limp once more, as all eyes turned to Kashaw as the cleric began to process what they’d just heard.

“Well, fuck.”

* * *

The others had offered to come along on this final, unexpected leg of the hunt for Vesh’s cult, but Kash and Zahra had adamantly refused: this, this part was deeply personal.

They rested only a single night before traveling to the wasteland that’d once been Kash’s home so long ago, and little was said between them either that night, or through the next day’s wearying trek and search under grey, cloud-cloaked skies.

It was a barren, inhospitable place, now—not hard to believe it was cursed by an evil goddess of death—with no sign of shelter or permanent dwelling: hard to believe that anyone, much less some kind of ‘child’ was surviving there.

The thought had only just crossed Zahra’s mind when a flicker of movement caught the corner of her eye: something small and quick darting behind a nearby boulder. With a seemingly casual flick of her tail, the warlock alerted her lover before drifting slowly in the general direction of the large rock.

From behind it, there was the sound of hasty scrambling backwards, then what sounded like gravel and a small body falling a brief distance, followed by a muffled, barely-audible whimper of pain and fear. _A **child’s** pain and fear_, the mother knew, and whatever plans and assumptions she’d come there with, when she circled the boulder and saw the hidden drop-off perilously close behind it, a curled and pitiful, dirt-covered figure trembling at the bottom of the five-foot ledge, maternal concern over-wrote them all.

Carefully easing herself down the drop, Zahra knelt beside the child—the girl, she could see, now—murmuring the most soothing tune she could think of (it was a lullaby…in Infernal…) as she reached out to the rail-thin, dark-haired figure. The girl couldn’t be any older than seven, staring up at the tiefling woman with terrified, mis-matched eyes of teal and purple beginning to well with tears as she pressed back into the rock wall, cradling the arm that had to have been broken.

“It’s alright, little one,” Zahra whispered, switching to Common as she reached out again, palm up. “We can help you. He can heal you, and we can bring you somewhere safe, and warm and comfortable.”

Kash had joined them, and her words seemed to snap him out of staring at the girl and into motion to help. The girl eyed him warily as he knelt in front of her, glancing at Zahra before finally letting him touch her injured arm. The tiefling’s nod and gentle smile (and the cleric’s spell which re-knit the bones and soothed the pain away) seemed to break through the child’s walls, and as she let fall the tears she’d been fighting back the whole time, Zahra scooped the girl’s too-small form into her arms, muttering a stream of ‘it’s alright’s’ and ‘you’re going to be okay’s’ in Common and Infernal.

Still cradling the child, Zahra met Kash’s troubled expression with a determined one. “No mother worthy of the title would ever leave a child alone in a pace like this. She’s _ours_ now.” Then, gently stroking the head of dark hair now buried in her shoulder, she asked, “Do you have a name, little one?”

“Yasha,” a tiny, tear-choked voice replied.

Zahra kissed the top of the girl’s head, silently thanking her patron that they’d found Yasha before the cult had—this girl was so _desperate_ for someone, she’d have been so easily misled, manipulated. “Well, Yasha Hydris, are you ready to come home?”

* * *

In hindsight, Zahra couldn’t picture any other reaction to finding out that Kash’s child ( _not_ Vesh’s— _never_ hers—as it became increasingly clear from old, half-faded injuries, just what Yasha had to have faced alone because of Her) was lost and abandoned and alone. Of _course_ they would bring her home _._ She was _theirs;_ she was _family._

Without battling an eye or saying a word, Vex let Zahra carry the still-clingy Yasha into the castle baths to clean her up when they arrived in Whitestone—and there was a clean, comfortable outfit just the right size for the girl waiting when they were done. (Who better than Vox Machina to understand that family was so much more than blood?)

Looking now like an entirely different child: clean, tangles combed out of her dark hair, dressed in new clothes, and even giving the tiniest, most hesitant of smiles, Yasha took Zahra’s hand, following her to the smaller, more private of Whitestone Castle’s dining rooms (‘Alright, let’s get some food in you, Yasha.’). Kash was already waiting there, Lucien sitting in his lap chattering and playing as much as eating, brightening now that his parents were back once again—and for good.

The lavender-skinned toddler turned at his mother’s voice, but Kash held him in place as Lucien squirmed and reached out for Zahra. Yasha grew hesitant, shy once again, and started to duck back behind the tiefling woman, but Zahra put out a hand to stop her.

“It’s alright, Yasha. That’s just your little brother, Lucien; I was just telling you about him. Come and say ‘hi.”

Lucien was still fidgeting a little, but a twitch of this tail showed he was listening to what Kash was whispering in his ear. The two children watched each other now as the distance between them shrank, red eyes meeting teal and purple ones. Finally, Yasha and Zahra were standing right by the chair, and Lucien was staring at the girl with an uncharacteristically somber expression—

—Which promptly melted into an exuberant smile. “Sissy!” he chirped, now reaching for a startled Yasha, who barely managed to catch the tiefling toddler as he dove for her without any reservation.

She stumbled for a second before steadying herself—evidently stronger than her slight frame would indicate—then stared down in wonder at the still-grinning Lucien before smiling in return. “My brother,” she whispered hoarsely. “Lucien.”

Over the heads of their children, Zahra gave Kash another determined nod.

This time, he returned it.

* * *

Shortly afterwards, they returned to Vasselheim. Of course they would visit their friends, and in the years to come, they’d occasionally travel to or alongside members of Vox Machina, spending time with them in Whitestone, in Westrun, in even Zephrah, and beyond; but, for now, Vasselheim and what they’d begun to build there was home.

(And, should Vesh take issue with them again, or come for the children, having the immediate backup of _several_ major temples to call upon was hardly a bad thing.)

And so, a new chapter in their happy—if unorthodox—home life began.

Both Kash and Zahra remained members of the Slayer’s Take, but they would alternate accepting jobs so that at least one of them was always home with Yasha and Lucien. In addition to making and enchanting items for her own sake or for commission, Zahra also began to build her organization for the seeking, collecting, organizing, and maintaining of rare arcane secrets, leveraging assistance from both the Slayer’s Take and the Cobalt Vault—and undertaking that left her fulfilled, if unpopular in the anti-arcane society around them. (And yet, somehow, she didn’t have trouble finding enough interested and capable parties to keep the small group running.)

As for the children, they got along very well, with only a handful of petty, easily-resolved squabbles between them (as most siblings have). It helped that, overall, Lucien regarded his older sister with an awe and admiration that was almost hero-worship, while Yasha was extremely protective of her little brother. Yasha often seemed to be the only person who could reign in Lucien’s energy and escapades—only she wasn’t usually inclined to, content instead to trail after the perpetual instigator and follow his lead, only putting her foot down if she perceived actual danger.

(This tendency towards innocent mischief and misadventure was only multiplied when the two were around the de Rolo quarter-elves or the Shorthalt-Trickfoot gnome children or—gods grant patience—both other families at once.)

Still, the years passed without major disaster or tragedy, and Yasha and Lucien entered adolescence happy, healthy, and with all their limbs and appendages intact (the latter no meager feat). Yasha was always a good few inches taller than most kids her age, with a powerful build, but nevertheless maintained a generally quiet and gentle demeanor. Lucien, on the other hand, always tended towards a leaner build (perhaps to do with his seemingly boundless energy constantly pushing him to run and climb and explore and _do_ ), and was usually the loudest thing in any room, ever ready with a smile and a quip from nearly as soon as he could talk.

This wasn’t the family either Zahra or Kashaw would’ve pictured (had they ever let themselves) years before, but neither of them would’ve changed it for anything.

* * *

Not that everything was simple and easy.

Yasha’s generally patient nature _did_ have its limits, and when those limits were reached, her anger was a fearsome enough sight, even without the physical change it occasionally brought about. When she calmed down, her regret was both palpable and immediate, ad not even Lucien’s attempts or her parents’ quiet assurances could bring a smile to her for the rest of the day.

At first, Yasha attempted to fight back or suppress her anger—especially after her first transformation at age ten, the first time her eyes turned black and skeletal wings sprouted from her back, the time that Kashaw took her aside afterwards and had to explain to his now-trembling, terrified daughter just what had happened, the truth of their family’s complicated bloodline. But however she tried, however much she hated her rage and the monster she felt that it made her—hated the ties to the dark mockery of motherhood it displayed—it seemed that her fuse grew only shorter, less predictable.

Surprisingly enough, it was her ‘Uncle Grog’ that proved the most helpful to the young pre-teen, teaching her how to use, channel, and vent her anger, rather than try to bottle it until she exploded. It was the Goliath who first put a sword in her hand (with both Kash and Pike on emergency stand-by while Zahra firmly informed a disappointed Lucien that he would not be learning to use a weapon until he, too, was twelve), and taught her to fight both when clear-headed and when rage-filled.

It was also Grog who, when she was older, suggested that she seek out both the Victory Pit and the Temple of Kord, and she did—learning form Earthbreaker Groon not the ways of unarmed fighting (well, okay, maybe a _little_ ), but of Kord, of the Storm Lord, of listening and meditating and communing. The teenager found there, if not full release or escape, then at least an alternative to, a shelter from the influence of her mother’s blood.

(All things considered, none of this made her any less scary when she was angry, it just gave her more control—arguably _more_ terrifying, then, for those that she _chose_ to unleash her fury on.)

* * *

Lucien’s own growing pains were of a different sort: the family had long come to believe (or, at least, hope) that the red spots he was born with were merely some kind of strange birthmark, but when he was at last deemed old enough to begin to learn to fight, a strange instinct came over him. Before following his father and sister through the basic forms they were teaching him, he drew the blade across the back of his hand without thinking, not noticing the small trickle of blood, or the ice crystals that grew on the blade as he concentrated on the movements.

It was Yasha’s quiet, “Luci,” and (Kash’s not so quiet, “What the hell?”) that drew Lucien’s attention to what he had done, and what had happened. The startled boy dropped the blade, the ice vanishing as soon as the sword left his hand, before it clattered to the dusty ground.

Zahra and Kash were beside him in an instant, the cleric examining the still-bleeding cut (thankfully nothing more than a small nick) and finding nothing, while the warlock picked up and examined the sword: nothing—just the plain beginner’s weapon Yasha had first used, a good deal smaller and lighter than the sort she favored now, and not magical in the slightest. Zahra had tried to teach both children magic at various points, but Yasha had always favored physical activity, and Lucien had never had the patience for prolonged study, though he certainly enjoyed the imagery and symbolism—he’d never successfully cast a spell.

Kash looked into his son’s now-wide eyes and laid a steadying hand on the skinny shoulder, muttering, “Hey, being at least a little unusual _is_ normal in this family. But let’s make a rule here and now that you don’t experiment with—whatever this was—without one of us here, just in case its more than a little cut next time.”

Lucien nodded absently, but a little of the fear had already gone out of his expression. “And to make sure I don’t do anything stupid?”

“Anything dangerous. Well, _too_ dangerous. We’ve learned to pick our battles by now,” Zahra replied, an was rewarded by a smile form her son.

Everything was going to be _fine_.

(And, actually, it was. Lucien quickly gained control of the instincts that seemed to flow through his very veins, and could choose whether or not he wished to ‘activate’ his swords. For the moment, he opted not to push his abilities much further after the first time he blinded Yasha during a sparring match—he found that he wasn’t all that eager to learn what the rest of his ‘blood eyes’ did.)

For all Zahra’s research, the closest precedent she could find were the strange, secretive orders of those called ‘bloodhunters’, but as little information as there was about their rites and abilities available, it still seemed like a power chosen and acquired by dark arcane means, not one inborn and instinctual. “Strange things just happen when ‘divine’, infernal, and mortal natures mingle, I guess,” was the best explanation they seemed likely to ever get.

* * *

Dark powers of mysterious origin aside, Lucien nevertheless grew into a generally upbeat, extremely outgoing individual whose personality was a colorful as his taste in clothing, and who was as impulsive as his sister was (usually) calm.

Like Yasha, Lucien found himself drawn to a particular deity—not one of the city’s, but not a surprising choice, either, when they considered his nature, outlook (and fondness for moon-based imagery that was definitely a result of Zahra’s influence)—and though the Moonweaver was typically considered an elvish deity, it was admittedly hard to picture a more obvious choice for the young tiefling.

Around that time had come the day that Zahra had known (and said) would come: the day that ‘Lucien’ would be set aside in favor of a name chosen by and for himself. And, if the choice was more than a little unusual, well, then that just made it all the more fitting, didn’t it?

And it couldn’t be denied that ‘Mollymauk’ had a certain ring to it…

* * *

When your parents are heroes of a certain renown, when you grow up around Vox Machina and their families, and, moreover, when you possess strange powers of your own not yet fully explored, then it is hardly surprising when wanderlust and a thirst for adventure become nearly overwhelming. There is _such_ a big world out there, and while you’ve heard tales, gone on some smaller adventures with your family, you still cannot wait to see first-hand the many wonders and terrors alike that it holds.

(And, of course, there is the voice inside, urging you to see if you _can_ live up to the tales, coming home with stories of your own to rival them. And maybe, in the journey, you will gain a clearer picture of who and what you want to be.)

So, when the time came, Molly and Yasha set out together, having chosen to make their way to and through Wildemount, forging a legacy in a place their family’s names were not (yet) known. Kashaw and Zahra watched them go, worried a little (of course), but knowing that their children were no longer children, but young adults, and the time had come to let them go and trust them to look out for each other, if not always themselves.

So, Molly and Yasha set out for lands and adventures unknown, side-by-side, knowing that having the other right there was _right_ —like it was always meant to be.

* * *

Maybe, in another world, in another reality, Vesh’s daughter would’ve been left instead with a wandering tribe in the wastes of Xhorhas, and was never found by her father, however hard he tried, never learned the truth of who she truly was.

Maybe that Yasha learned love and loss in that harsh place, and the taste of shame and fear mingling on the back of her tongue as she ran; maybe _her_ path to the Storm Lord was less straightforward, tinged with time forgotten and uncertainty.

Maybe _that_ Yasha never fully knew why it felt so right to have a certain colorful tiefling at her side, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like it was always meant to be…

…

Maybe…

….

Maybe, in another world, another reality, the Cult of Vesh was successful in spiriting away young Lucien, and in keeping him forever hidden from desperate, grieving parents; maybe he endured harsh training and dark rituals as he grew, only to be abandoned upon the discovery he bore no Blood of Vesh.

Maybe that Lucien, warped and angry, formed the Tomb Takers from other malcontents and rejects of Her cult, only to land himself in a grave, emerging as someone else altogether.

Maybe _that_ Mollymauk (as he still became—the person it felt so _right_ to be) never fully understood why he felt more complete and grounded when a certain pale, towering warrior woman was around, like they shared something important.

Like it was always meant to be…

…

Maybe…

…

(Maybe, in some dark world, both tales were true at once, leaving one home far too empty, too quiet; and two children lost to far-flung and far-less-caring places.)

…

Maybe…

…

Maybe, in still another time line, none of these stories were true at all.

Maybe _that_ Yasha truly was born in Xhorhas, and was a bringer of death, but not Her daughter.

Maybe _that_ Mollymauk crawled from the grave of a Lucien who had never born the legacy of two heroes of Tal’Dorei and Vasselheim.

Maybe _those_ two, when they eventually met, shared no blood at all, but forged a bond of the heart, nevertheless.

…

(Maybe somethings _are_ always meant to be.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this AU (or group of related AU’s hinted at in the end, there) has been buzzing about my brain since I read two different fics: one that had Molly and Yasha as siblings, another that had Molly as Kash and Zahra’s son. At which point, my brain simply went, “why not both?” and here we are. When/if I have the time to devote to a full-length fic, this is an AU I’d like to expand on, maybe…


	4. Keyleth: Senses of Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 1  
> Character: Keyleth
> 
> The fire druids are gone; one young Ashari stands in the rubble and ash that remains.

She’d seen it in the scry: the sky blocked by black, choking clouds, the leveled homes, the twisted, broken landscape that now resembled nothing so much as a gaping wound (which was itself a sight she was all too familiar with following the Conclave’s attack on Emon—well, since the Briarwoods—the Underdark— …since leaving home).

But a scry couldn’t communicate the true, visceral _horror_ of standing in the ruins of Pyrah, with every sensory input screaming that this was a pace of death and tragedy and despair.

The mountaintop winds that Keyleth had thought comforting in their familiarity when she’d first come here (in a time not long before that nevertheless felt like another lifetime) now screamed around and through twisted spires of stone and shattered boulders, creating an ever-present keening sound that drove into her mind and set every nerve on edge. Worse, there were no sounds of life—animal or humanoid—to muffle or drown it out.

The heat blistered her skin, uncomfortably similar to the feeling of dragon-fire razing a city around her; the sting of smoke in her eyes mingled with the already-welling tears and made it hard to see the devastation around her (not that not seeing it blocked it out from her, granted her _any_ reprieve).

The smoke that bit into her eyes forced its way into her nose, her throat, choking her with the scent and taste of brimstone and sulfur and ash— _Oh gods, tell me that ash isn’t all that’s left of the Fire Ashari…_

Something—something dark and fearsome and primal—was welling up in her stomach, bubbling up in her chest and clawing towards her throat, demanding that she release it. Keyleth didn’t know if it would be a scream of rage like Grog loosed in battle, or a flood of tears and sobs that wouldn’t stop once she started. She didn’t _know_ what she was feeling, here amidst the graves of her people. But she _did_ know:

_“…From the moment we came here, Raishan you were mine…_

_…I was verdant but now I see red; sleep well for you soon will be dead..._

_…I’ll see that you burn…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too much to say here…The final lines are from the Vox Machina musical album put out by Cantata Panshophical, as their version of ‘Burn’ was definitely running through my head as I wrote this take on Kiki’s reaction to Pyrah’s destruction.


	5. Taryon: ‘Doty…Put that Down!’

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 1  
> Character: Taryon Darrington
> 
> An inventor and his trusty automaton can do almost anything...right?

It seemed like such a good idea at the time: to celebrate the one-year anniversary of his first encounter with Vox Machina and the debut of the newly-reconstructed Doty both at the same time! And while asking someone to bake what amounts to their own birthday cake could be considered by some to be in poor taste, it’s not like Doty minded, and the exercise was the perfect chance for Tary to give the construct a trial-run before his official Winter’s Crest debut.

“This will be fun, fun, fun!”

“Tary.”

* * *

Tary managed to convince the others to give him sole run of the (closed) Slayers’ Cake kitchen for the whole day—more than enough time to whip up a quick (and delicious) spice-nut cake.

(Right?)

Okay, so it took him a _little_ longer than expected to assemble the necessary ingredients, but that was _fine_ they had _so_ much time, and, come to think of it, why should an arcane construct intuitively know that, say, _chicken_ eggs and _cow's_ milk were what the recipe was specifically calling for without being explicitly told so?

(This would go great.)

“Tary.”

* * *

…

“Alright, Doty. I need you to add half a teaspoon—”

_*Snap!* *Plunk.*_

“—OF CINNAMON!”

“Tary.”

…

“Alright, alright. So, in _another_ bowl we put the eggs—”

_*Thump.* *Plunk.*_

“Uh—Doty?”

“Tary?”

“I perhaps should have said, but you’re supposed to crack the eggs first—”

_*Crunch!*_

“Not in the bowl! We don’t want any shell fragments in the cake!”

“Tary.”

“…Let’s get a new bowl. We can start this part over. Again.”

“Tary.”

…

“Okay. _Now_ beat together the eggs and sugar—No, not with your _fist_ —Here, use this whisk—No, not ‘beat’ like with a club, ‘beat’ as in _stir_! Stir the eggs and sugar together _with. the. whisk!”_

“Tary.”

…

“Doty, before you add the nuts into the batter, I need you to toss them—”

_*Thwack—thump.*_

“OW! — _In_ the spice mixture! Pour them into the spice mixture and stir them until they’re coated!”

“Tary.”

….

“Alright—okay. Now just place the cake on the center rack—IN THE PAN! _NO, DOTY, DON’T_ —pour it into the oven.”

“Tary.”

…

* * *

If Taryon was looking more than a little haggard, if the kitchen was an absolute mess, if the cake more closely resembled a piece of masonry than confectionery, the members of Vox Machina who were present (that is, all but Keyleth, Vax, and, of course, Scanlan) did not comment, but accepted their slices with polite smiles, if not excited ones.

Percy was able to hide his reaction to the first, unusual taste.

Grog didn’t even try.

“Why’s the cake taste so weird?”

Vex poked at the surprisingly-tan and -dense baked good (well, ‘baked okay’ at a generous assessment) on her plate with her fork. “Tary, darling, did you remember to pick up the flour I told you we needed, or did you use what was in the pantry? As I recall, all we had left was whole wheat flour—”

Tary froze, wide-eyed and gaze unfocused.

“It’s okay, that just makes it healthy, right?” Pike began, trying to soften the blow, but the exhausted inventor had already collapsed into a defeated puddle on the floor.

“Tary.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comedy is a genre I tend to enjoy better than I can produce, but I wanted to give it a try. Hopefully you guys liked how it turned out! (And yes, if the last mistake seems a little out of place…I couldn’t resist slipping in my mom’s famous Christmas Eve Whole Wheat Cake Incident—we haven’t let her live it down yet, and I’m not about to start!)


	6. Fjord: Ooh, Shiny!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 2  
> Character: Fjord
> 
> They were supposed to be gathering loot, right? Of COURSE he was going to grab the interesting-looking thing...

The battle was over, the crazed magical researcher was dead, and there was an entire study jam-packed with strange and rare artifacts to explore and to loot—that went without saying, right?

By far, the most eye-catching thing in the room was the multi-faceted, multi-colored gemstone roughly the size of a fist that sat right at Fjord’s elbow, glowing and glittering in its gold-and-crystal stand/setting on a tall wooden shelf littered with other, less impressive, baubles.

So, naturally, he grabbed it first.

The resulting magical shockwave rippled over the Mighty Nein before Fjord could shout a warning or let go of the stone. Well: over most of them: Jester’s duplicate got hit and vanished, but the tiefling herself was out of reach of the whatever-it-was as she helped a newly-healed Caleb to sit up, so they both were fine. And Nott inexplicably managed to make herself so impossibly flat against the floor that the magic passed harmlessly over her. But the rest of them…

Fjord blinked as a semi-translucent, spectral shield shimmered into existence in front of him, moving as he did, resolutely defending him from… nothing, at the moment.

Beau, meanwhile, simply vanished from sight, while Caduceus stared in mild amusement and curiosity as one of his incidental injuries from the last battle shrank to almost nonexistence.

Yasha, the closest to Fjord, instinctively reached for the half-orc, if only to get him to release the crystal. He _did,_ but mostly due to the fact that it seemed to be magically affixed to the shelf it rested on while he, at Yasha’s touch, was suddenly hovering twenty feet in the air, praying that his yelp hadn’t sounded nearly as undignified to the others as it had to him.

And it didn’t stop there…

Without preamble or warning, Caduceus suddenly found himself translocated twenty feet form where he had been—which fortunately put him in just the right place to catch a now-plummeting Fjord.

For a reason he could not verbalize—if there was any reason at all—Fjord found himself gripped by an all-consuming, paralyzing fear of his Firbolg companion, and only the fact that he was too scared to move kept him from running as far away as he could.

Yasha stared at the two, not noticing her hand brush against the wooden shelf the crystal still rested on…until said shelf abruptly burst into flame. She pulled back, staring, as Beau surged forward (now visible and feeling inexplicably as though, were she capable of casting any spells at all, she’d be _damn_ good at it right now) and beat out the small tongues of flame.

And that wasn’t all…

Yasha, still frozen and very clearly trying not to touch _any_ one or _any_ thing, was now, head to foot, a more vibrant shade of blue than even Jester; a color that had Beau (who, again, felt like she could kick some _ass_ with magic right now—if she had any) unabashedly staring (even more than normal).

That is, until she backed into Caduceus a half-second later and felt inexplicably, even impossibly, like she had been pumped full of some kind of sickening poison. Normally, she was immune to such things, but now, for the moment, she was apparently and most definitely **_not_**.

Fjord, meanwhile, no longer feeling strangely afraid, scrambled out of Caduceus’ grasp, looking instinctively to the three that had been so far unaffected—

Only to watch them be blasted by arcane lighting that appeared, struck (knocking Caleb unconscious once more), then vanished just as suddenly.

Then, for three heartbeats, all was quiet.

(Well, except for Beau retching, Jester wailing about how she’d ‘just healed Caleb, for crying out loud!’, and Caduceus complimenting Yasha’s still-blue look.)

“My bad. Sorry about that,” Fjord managed as he watched Jester heal Caleb (again) and Caduceus mutter a spell that seemed to help Beau regain control of her digestive tract.

Yasha—no less intimidating for her new, almost-neon skin tone—leveled a cold glare at the warlock-turned-paladin. “No. more. touching. things.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I love watching Fjord be the strategic one, the vice of reason, or the one doing the talking, I also love the moments where Grog’s impulsiveness breaks through and the resulting shenanigans.  
> Notes on exclusion—I liked the idea of Nott rolling a Nat20 on her Dex save and being exempt form the chaos, and I’d initially pictured Jester’s duplicate getting hit instead of Jester and Caleb using his Shield reaction to protect himself, but the alter only really apply in the case of an attack roll, not a Dex save, to my understanding. But I’d already rolled up the other results, so I just moved Jester and Caleb out of range and went on with the story.  
> (And, as usual when my goal was ‘chaos!’ I rolled on the Wild Magic table for the affected characters. Unfortunately, Beau ended up getting TWO results that would’ve boosted her (nonexistent) casting ability. Oh, well.)


	7. Caduceus: Buried Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 2  
> Character: Caduceus Clay
> 
> The surface of someone is one thing, but what about what lies beneath (especially the parts they never want to come to light)?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, full disclosure: I am not yet caught up with campaign 2 (I’m about 20 or so episodes behind), but I have seen discussions of episodes 95-96. Part of me wanted to wait to write this until I got there myself, but I also realized I haven’t really done anything Caduceus-centric, and I love the character, so I just decided to go with it and hope my impressions aren’t too far off.

There was a time when the Mighty Nein wondered if Caduceus was even capable of anger. Their new friend just seemed so…unflappable, rarely displaying an emotion more negative than confusion, and those only briefly—save, perhaps, his near-breakdown of fear and uncertainty immediately upon boarding the _Mist(ake)_ : and that seemed so short-lived after Jester’s intervention. Even when Nott fired (two!) explosive arrows too close to him, even when she technically _killed_ him, she got little more than a light scolding from the cleric.

 _‘I’m sorry for raising my voice.’_ That moment after losing Yasha to Oban had seemed so comical at the time—the time when nothing was particularly funny and they were scrambling for a course of action, hardly believing there _could_ be one that was right—that they missed the deeper truth that was there, all but asking to be seen.

Of course Caduceus _felt_ anger—everyone does—but somewhere along the lines, he’d decided, or been taught/told, or otherwise internalized that _displaying_ his anger was something uncalled for, or inappropriate, or energy ill-spent: something to apologize for at the slightest slip. Something to keep back, to move past with the barest glimpse, if possible.

On the surface, such an approach could be seen as ‘wise' or ‘mature,’ the others viewing him as a steady island of calm and peace that they can rely on.

(Who, then, was _he_ to rely on?)

But it is neither wise nor mature to forever suppress or deny one’s emotions, allowing no outlet or chance for healing where and when needed. Eventually, what lies beneath will have to be addressed, or intractable damage will ensue.

(And that includes lonely young Firbolg children that simply miss their absent family members.)


	8. Vex'ahlia: Cabin Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 1  
> Character: Vex'ahlia
> 
> THIS was why she preferred the woods to most towns in this corner of Tal'dorei...

They just couldn’t catch a break, could they?

Vex’ahlia and her brother had only been traveling on their own for a little over a year, and had already arrived at the conclusion that it wasn’t just their father (and all the other elves of Syngorn) that hated them—the universe itself did, too.

Every time things started to go in their favor, they stopped; sometimes dramatically—the loss of their mother, her capture by poachers, and whatever had happened to Vax before he’d joined the Clasp (that he still wouldn’t talk about but she knew him well enough to know was bad)—and sometimes, like now, merely annoying.

It’d been hard enough convincing various town guards, innkeepers, and tavern owners that Trinket was harmless when he was a tiny baby, but now that the cub was truly beginning to grow, it was beginning to verge on near-impossible…and he wasn’t even a juvenile yet!

Surely a quarantine order was over-reacting?

(As soon as Vax finished whatever Clasp business had dragged them to this back-woods swamp hole masquerading as a town, they were leaving and never coming back!)

It also didn’t make sense, to her: even _if_ someone thought that her sweet baby Trinket was a dangerous wild animal, what on earth made them think that confining him (and thereby, _her_ ) to an inn room for the duration of their stay would make the situation any _less_ dangerous?

(In reality, the only ones in any sort of danger were the ranger and her companion—of dying of boredom.)

With no sign of Vax returning any time soon and _hours_ to go before sun-down (when she could easily sneak the two of them out for a little fun—just to spite those _idiotic_ excuses for town guards), Vex was scrambling for a way to entertain a growing bear cub—and herself.

“Trinket, darling, Mommy has some things to teach you!”

* * *

Years later, when Trinket was grown and adventuring alongside Vox Machina, he often demonstrated various tricks and maneuvers Vex had worked out with him long before. Some made sense for a ranger’s animal companion: coordinated attacks, tracking, flanking, even grappling and pinning. Still others made sense by virtue of how much of his life had been spent around humanoids: shake, sit, lay down, roll over, etc.

And then there were some…

“Vex?”

“Yes, Scanlan?”

“What on earth possessed you to teach that dumb bear to _somersault_?”

“…What? You’ve never been bored?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I had the general idea worked out before …everything… happened. The universe has a sense of humor sometimes, doesn’t it?


	9. Jester: Behind the Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 2  
> Character: Jester Lavorre
> 
> Those who didn't know might think her silly or stupid...
> 
> ...But they were wrong.

She wasn’t _stupid_.

Okay, so maybe she was sheltered—maybe all the stories she’d read (or heard from Mama and the Traveler) didn’t quite cover _everything_ in the world beyond the Lavish Chateau, or maybe they got some things wrong—but, still: Jester Lavorre was _not_ stupid.

She had absolutely no problems with playing the fool, with acting silly and (to some—boring—eyes) childish. But not without a purpose. And she _had_ a purpose; she’d _always_ had a purpose—

—it was right there, in the name she’d chosen for herself. (Her _real_ name.)

Sometimes she _did_ get tired: sometimes everything they’d seen and done and been through weighed so heavily on her—on all of them—that the effort it took to keep smiling _herself_ (much less put a smile on the faces of any of the others) was almost too much for the young tiefling.

But honestly, most of the time it was _easy_ —mostly it was no act. Mostly, it was enough for her to realize all the places she had gone, all that she had done and seen, and feel the accompanying giddy rush and let it tumble out of her, spreading to the others.

_The others._

And that was the best part of it all—the part that was the easiest of all: she wasn’t alone in her room anymore, and when she remembered that, it was nearly impossible to _not_ smile.

(No, Jester Lavorre was _not_ stupid.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little short this week again, I apologize. I’ve been trying to use this time for other craft projects harder to find time for when I’m working, but ironically, that sometimes pushes stories like this aside. I will try to be better about that in the coming weeks. (but, hey: both clerics got introspective pieces!)


	10. Percy: Make a List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 1  
> Character: Percival de Rolo
> 
> It was so hard to remember now, but anger had not been his first reaction...

_Anger—Anger is feeling, believing that you (or someone else) have been wronged, that something you (or they) were due has been denied or else taken away._

_Justice—Justice is ensuring that wrong is put right, that things are restored to the way they ought to have been, and that due punishment is doled out._

_…And vengeance—vengeance is deciding that **you** will be the one to determine the means by which and extent to which both repayment and punishment are to be pursued. _

* * *

It was so hard to remember it now, but anger had not been his first reaction.

Of course it wasn’t; to be angry requires at least some sort of sense of understanding what had happened, what had been done, and as the evening turned to bloodshed, all was confusion and chaos and blank, uncomprehending shock.

Terror came next, in that cell surrounded by the corpses of his family—terror was the first emotion to pierce the cotton-headed fuzziness of being unable to wrap his mind around just what all had so rapidly unfolded.

The came Ripley, and her questions and her _methods_ , and that choking, paralyzing fear seemed to overtake all else save for desperation—an internal (and, admittedly, often external) cry begging for it all to stop; for escape, release, and _end_ to the fear and the blood and the _pain_.

(It was a different sort of pain he felt the day that Anders came into Ripley’s ‘work area’ to quietly confer with her, then left with a passing, dispassionate glance at the bleeding, sobbing form on her table—the brief surge of hope utterly crushed as he realized the man he’d once looked up to was a part of this…this…whatever it was. But even then, it was not anger—yet.)

No—the anger came later, after a terrified flight through the woods, after arrows and blood and rock and river, after the mind-blanking, memory-obscuring fog rolled back and the horror of what had happened washed over him at last.

And when the first spark of anger came, it was at a teenage boy who ran, his little sister’s screams still ringing in his ears.

( _You left her_ , an internal voice hissed at him. _She freed you and you left her to save your own wretched, ruined hide._ )

He found he could not bear that thought—he wanted, he _needed_ someone else to blame, to rage against so that he couldn’t hear _that_ voice anymore. So he grasped at something, _any_ thing else to drown it out—and something heard his plea. The image, the memory of Ander’s cold glance sprang at once to his mind, the stab of fresh betrayal now festering into something else.

(‘You can be angry at _him_ ,’ a voice insisted—not his own voice, but it made a very reasonable suggestion, didn’t it?)

(‘You can have vengeance.’)

(… _“Did I even want revenge before you came?”…)_

* * *

But that was a question he would not ask for _years_ —after years of trying, failing, of tinkering, of adventuring (of running)—would not ask until after the pursuit of vengeance had fed on his festering anger without being satisfying it, all the while masquerading as a crusade for justice; would not ask until he nearly went too far.

But it _was_ asked, even if it was not answered (or, at least, even if he did not _like_ the answer.)

And he tried, from there, to move on. With the help of the others (of _her_ ) he tried to find and respect the line between justice and revenge, told himself that he knew himself well enough to know the danger signs and areas—tried to grow, to be worthy of this second chance (third?) he did not deserve.

(Somehow, the anger that was hardest to release was the first, and the last to be forgiven was the stumbling, bleeding, terrified boy in the Parchwood Forest.)

Through it all he never could shake the thought that he had skipped over something, or stopped short of something—but he _knew_ that he had not yet faced some key part of what some might have called ‘healing’. He’d long come to accept that sense, resigned that he simply was—and would always be—broken, incomplete; but on worn temple steps, in the wake of losing yet another brother, he finally realized what it was.

_(…“I think…I miss my family.”…)_

* * *

_Grief—grief is allowing yourself to mourn that which you have lost._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another little character study—hopefully you guys aren’t getting too tired of them; I’ll try to work in more actual ficlets, since the whole point of this exercise was stretching myself more as a writer. Still, once the intro popped into my head, I really couldn’t take this one anywhere else.


	11. Nott: Everything and Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 2  
> Character: Nott the Brave
> 
> What, exactly, was she supposed to be feeling right now?

Nott the brave sat hunched on the rough wooden chair, hood pulled low and knees pulled up to her chest, deaf to the din of the tavern around her. How long had she sat like that at the corner table they’d claimed when they first entered? Who knows—from time to time she’d lift her head and scan the crowded room for Caleb out of sheer instinct, but her boy hadn’t budged from his seat by the fire, nose buried in his new book after she told him it was alright.

 _At least we got **some** thing out of this gods-forsaken mess. _But the goblin couldn’t muster much actual excitement behind the thought; honestly, she felt pretty detached from everything at the moment.

A blur of blue and swirl of fabric told Nott that Jester had settled in beside her, but even that knowledge didn’t penetrate the thick cloud of mind-numbing fog.

“Nott?”

Damn it—it was her ‘small voice’: the one that Jester used when she was feeling sad or scared or uncertain and wasn’t trying to hide it (the one that aroused protective maternal instincts in her almost as much as Caleb did). With monumental effort, Nott raised her hooded face to meet Jester’s wide and worried eyes.

Whatever the tiefling saw stifled her intended next question, and instead she leaned forward and threw her arms around the small huddled form. Slowly, mechanically, Nott raised her arms to return the embrace, but still the fog did not part. She felt as much as heard Jester’s sob in her shoulder and found words coming at last, but flat, lifeless: “Don’t cry, Jessie. It wasn’t your fault; you did your best.”

Jester leaned back, her hands holding either side of the goblin’s face as she shook her head furiously. “But he was your brother, Nott! We were going to save him…I was supposed to save him…”

 _And I’m supposed to be feeling something right now,_ Nott thought, but didn’t say.

“Sometimes we’re too late and out of magic. We forget sometimes, that—” Her voice trialed off, unsure of how she’d intended to finish that. Forget what? That they could lose? They could fail? That death was real? They didn’t forget that—this was only the latest in a string of failures, interrupted only occasionally by unexpected success. And even now, while traveling with two clerics who several times had pulled the rest of them back to the world of the living, not a one of them ever lost sight of what was on the line should the magic fail.

She supposed, though, that _she_ at least had forgotten what it was like to be ordinary and face death: to be Veth Brenatto and standing in the Felderwin cemetery while an elderly (or worse, relatively young) friend or neighbor was laid to rest—what it was like to feel helpless and small but not have any real sense there was anything she could’ve done. (Though after Yeza’s shop got started, sometimes there was the nagging question if they could’ve helped cure some ailment or other.)

She had almost forgotten what it’d been like to be Veth when her parents died.

“We brought him home at least,” she said at last in the same, flat voice. “Now they can bury him with the rest of the family.”

“Do you want to stay for that?” Jester asked, her voice still quiet and small and serious, but more certain: her ‘caretaker’ voice.

Did she? She’d barely made it through her parent’s funeral when a harsh winter had simply proved too much. If she hadn’t had Yeza with her—

The fog swirled, parted a moment, and pang of something so sharp and intense Nott couldn’t tell if it was grief, homesickness, fear, or desperation pierced through. “I want to go to Nicodranas,” she blurted out as the fog began to close in once more.

Jester searched her face, then nodded. “We can do that; Caleb can take us tomorrow.”

The fog was an impenetrable barrier again, and Nott returned to staring at the wood grain; a part of her did notice that Jester remained, now in sympathetic silence, and she mused that she probably would’ve felt touched, if she’d been able to.

As they often did, her thoughts strayed to the flask at her side; as they rarely did, they stopped. _Not tonight._

_But later._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I promised more narrative ficlets to contrast all the recent character-study pieces. This one was a bit tricky at first, so I decided to just start writing it and see where it went. In my head, this takes place sometime after they leave Yeza in Nicodranas but before Nott is returned to being Veth, after a hypothetical adventure in which they chase down a group of people/creatures that attacked a recovering Felderwin, including taking one of Nott’s brothers, who they were unable to save.


	12. Scanlan: Never Quite My Style

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 1  
> Character: Scanlan Shorthalt
> 
> The time has come to leave old comfort zones for new joys...
> 
> (Title references/is from ‘Dear Theodosia’ from Hamilton/’Dear Kaylie’ from Vox Machina: and Exandrian Musical)

They didn’t talk about kids at first—the first several years of the Shorthalt-Trickfoot household were spent slowing down and figuring out what the status quo was, rather than rushing to change it. Pike and Scanlan let Grog and Kaylie be the ones pursuing change (and education—that still seemed the strangest thing about their new life: a literate Grog), and let their home in Westrun be the touchpoint, the anchor that the two of them could come back to and ground themselves.

(Percy and Vex, on the other hand, wasted no time at all; but then: as humans/half-elves, they had a few less centuries in the long run.)

That had actually been a tipping point: except for Keyleth, the two gnomes would likely outlive all of their friends. If they waited _too_ long, some of the shorter-lived members of Vox Machina wouldn’t be around to meet any kids they did have.

( _Grog_ wouldn’t be, and that realization was the final piece Pike needed to make up her mind.)

Still, it was important for Scanlan to talk the matter over with Kaylie—to make sure his little girl _knew_ that he wasn’t ‘replacing’ her or ‘doing over’ everything he’d failed and/or missed in her life and childhood. He’d messed so much up with her before, he couldn’t jeopardize all that they’d built, now.

(“‘Bout damn time,” she’d laughed, tone dancing with mischief, eyes steady and honest. “I was hoping to be a big sister before I forgot all the fun stuff I’m gonna teach ‘em. Troublemaking runs in the family, after all.”)

Eventually, though, they were ready (whether or not the world was), and soon Juniper Rae Shorthalt-Trickfoot entered their lives, followed a few years later by Willhand Stone Shorthalt-Trickfoot.

When he held his children for the first time, Scanlan, who’d never considered himself a fearsome fighter or warrior of renown even as he traveled with Vox Machina (his skills lay in other areas, after all), felt as though he _could_ be: if this tiny gnome child in his arms needed him to be, or asked him to be…

_(I can’t promise success, but I swear I’ll try to be everything you need.)_

* * *

A bard’s repertoire is an ever-expanding, ever-changing thing: they travel and learn new material everywhere they go, they adjust sets for each audience’s taste and preference, and as they themselves grow and mature as artists, certain songs or bits will rise into or fall out of favor.

But some pieces remain standards out of sheer popular demand.

As Scanlan caved to his audience’s plea and launched into ‘The Kooky Chroma Conclave’ (A nonsense ditty only tangentially based on historical events, in which the dragons were reduced to nothing more than ridiculous, incompetent figures that clumsily tripped into their own downfall—a bard’s best revenge), he couldn’t help but smile.

Juniper danced around the nursery with the small tambourine that Keyleth had given her at Winter’s Crest, keeping time as best she could (which was actually pretty good, for her age—he’d have to apologize to Pike eventually for the chaos a budding percussionist would loudly bring) and singing along enthusiastically, while little Willhand sat on the floor, gurgling happily and clapping his hands.

Abruptly, the energetic strains of a fiddle joined the cacophony, and Juniper cheered as Kaylie all but leapt through the doorway to join the fun, winking and smirking at her dad (who really hadn’t meant anyone over the age of eight or so to hear this ridiculousness passing as a song) and gesturing for him to keep going.

He did, and Kaylie played along, improvising around the simple, silly melody while Juniper and Willhand laughed and danced.

* * *

Early on, even before Juniper could really even follow the stories her parents were reading to her, Scanlan grew…well, _bored_ with the simple children’s books available. Sure, when she began to learn to read, they’d be a good, easy starting point—but in the meantime, they were hardly any sort of interesting bedtime tale!

Well, any bard worth anything at all knows how to solve _that_ problem, and from that night on, Scanlan simply ignored the books and made the stories up himself.

“And so the Bugbear, thoroughly confused and completely convinced he was an Owlbear, left the village alone and ran off into the woods, trying his best to hoot all the while.” He finished off the tale with a garbled screeching noise that did, indeed, sound like a very bad ‘hoot’, and was rewarded by the sounds of giggling from two small beds.

As he moved to tuck the children in, it occurred to Scanlan that there’d also been a deep rumbling sound in the hallway.

Hiding his frown, he doused the lights and poked his head out the door to see a sheepish-looking Grog sitting just outside, leaned against the wall beside the door. The goliath looked over at his friend and grinned.

“Dat was really good, Scan-man. Funnier’n last night, but I still fink da one about da hag n’ da ogre in da ballgown is my favorite. G’night!”

And with that, Grog lurched to his feet and shuffle doff to his room, paying little mind to the baffled (and slightly embarrassed) bard still in the doorway behind him.

* * *

The Princess Caramel Sundae With Sprinkles On Top (of the Royal House of the Land Of Sweets And Desserts And Goodness) adjusted his tiara to a slightly more comfortable position, then turned just in time to grab the Grand Duke Of Sugar Cookies And Gingerbread Men (two great houses, now united into a singular political powerhouse) just before he took a flying leap off of the Sheer Cliffs Of Delicious Despair.

The Grand Duke Of Sugar Cookies And Gingerbread Men was swiftly and safely deposited down and distracted from further acrobatic attempts by the Mystical And Magical Orb Of Candied Cherries On The Side, then Princess Caramel Sundae With Sprinkles On Top turned back to Her Majesty, Queen Chocolate Cake With Chocolate Frosting And Strawberries Inside, ruler of the Land Of Sweets And Desserts And Goodness, as she finished explaining that they were about to be attacked by the terrible armies of the King Of Nastiness And Meanies.

“What are we going to do?” Princess Caramel Sundae With Sprinkles On Top dutifully asked.

Queen Chocolate Cake With Chocolate Frosting And Strawberries Inside looked up at Princess Caramel Sundae With Sprinkles On Top, and gave him a mischievous grin. “We shall defeat them,” she declared grandly, “with the Battalion Of Banana Cream Pies and the Legion Of Lemon Custard Tarts!”

And they did (sound effects cheerfully and enthusiastically provided by the grand Duke of Sugar Cookies and Gingerbread Men), which was a good thing, since Queen Chocolate Cake With Chocolate Frosting And Strawberries Inside had an important tea-party meeting with representatives from the Realm Of Stuffed Toys And Pretty Dolls that she simply couldn’t miss for such trivial matters as the King Of Nastiness And Meanies latest failed invasion.

* * *

Pike watched and listened from the doorway as the happy trio launched into the next chapter of their game. She’d soon step in, the gallant knight, Sir Whipped Cream And Honey, returned form her quest to… chase away the terrible dragon that was roasting and eating the Marshmallow Men And Chocolate Rabbits Of Marshmallow Marsh, if she was remembering correctly. (If she wasn’t, Juniper would correct her.)

But for now, she let herself enjoy the scene.

So long ago, they’d both thought that their kids would need them to be brave warriors standing between them and the dangers of the world until they were ready to face them (and, to some extent, they _did_ so they _were_ ), but what they’d learned in the last few years was, more than that, Juniper and Willhand needed them to be _parents_ —

And sometimes, that meant just being a little silly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I never considered myself good at writing fluff, and Scanlan was not a character I felt I had a decent grasp on writing, but between this and my holiday ficlets this past December, I find I’m enjoying writing post-VM Shorthalt/Trickfoot domestic fluff. Who’d have guessed?  
> (It was interesting coming up with the names, but it seemed extremely likely Scanlan would want to name their daughter after his mother and Pike would want to name their son after Willhand, then I just had fun with the middle names: references to Seranrae [and Grog, by way of his father, Stonejaw].)


	13. Beauregard: Behind Blue Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 2  
> Character: Beauregard Lionette
> 
> You've gotten so used to the way things were, it's hard to believe things could be as they are...

You lived so much of your life around people with walls, battered and bloodied yourself against their unyielding barricades for years, desperate for any sign that you were wanted (hell, you would’ve settled for just being _seen_ ). Eventually, you were too hurt to keep trying, and the only thing you could do to protected your wounded self was to build walls of your own, as high and strong as you could.

That’s just what people do, how people are—right?

…

(It’s how _you_ are, and why should you change for anyone?)

…

…And yet…

…Advice on ‘manners’ and friendliness’ are not only taken, but repaid with morning workouts and guided meditations…

…And yet…

…Apologies are offered when your instinctive reactions and snappish comments cause her sweet, open face to fall (or at least, retractions—apologies are still a struggle, you find)…

…And yet…

…Teasing barbs are traded with less venom each time, and when he reaches for you, blind and deaf to surroundings, it is a responsibility you accept and a trust you refuse to betray…

…

…And so…

…Without noticing it, really, you’d added some windows and an open gate to your walls—let in some light (…and laughter…and hope…). You _were_ seen—

But you weren’t _really_ wanted—right? This wasn’t going to last, after all (nothing good ever had, before). So, when she demanded a deal, insisted on misery, it seemed a no-brainer, the easiest option: leave and patch up those stupid holes in your walls. Fill them in, maybe add another layer or so. Why not? This way, you’d be the only one affected.

And yet...

…

_“And **why** would we come rushing in at the first yelp?”_

_“…Because we care…”_

_“Really? Does that apply to you, too?”_

_“_ _yes_ _.”_

_“Oh, shit!”_

…

…And yet, you could hear the sound of someone (several someones) knocking on that gate you just shut…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBH, this one feels kinda ‘blah’ to me. I’m so close to catching up, now, but there was still a part of me going ‘don’t jump to conclusions until you’re fully caught up, stick with the part of the story that you know’, and I think this suffered for it. Hopefully, future installments find me in a braver frame of mind, or at least, fully caught up (I’m so close—so close!)


	14. Pike: In the Interim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 1  
> Character: Pike Trickfoot
> 
> Some thoughts you can’t escape, no matter how far you run…

The salt-spray lashed her face, driven by the freezing wind that both bit into and beat against her—but Pike didn’t care.

Her muscles shrieked in protest as they adjusted to new, demanding tasks, and her hands burned with blisters where there weren’t yet callouses—but Pike didn’t care.

There were nights she was so tired that she thought she might fall asleep before even managing to make it into her hammock—but Pike didn’t care.

The gnomish cleric didn’t care how cold she was, how much she hurt, or how tired she felt: this was better than the last few weeks of wallowing, drowning—

_Too small. Too weak. Not good enough. Not ready._

Pike wrenched her focus away from the ever-resent litany back onto the task at hand, but she knew that it would be back. As she grew more and more accustomed to the rigors of ship-board life, more and more of her mind was free to return to the thoughts she wished she could forever erase.

_Too small. Too weak. Not good enough. Not ready._

_…_

_Afraid._

And that was the heart of it, wasn’t it? She _had_ been afraid (and small and weak and _dead_ ), but that was forgivable (almost) in the heat of battle (the others would say as much, if she told them, she _knew_ ). No, the problem was that she was _still_ afraid, and she struggled to verbalize what it was that she was so afraid of.

 **Of dying?** Been there, done that, got a new hair color. **Of getting hurt?** But she hurt _here_ , and she almost welcomed it. **Of failing?** …

…Of failing _them_. Her friends, her family, her ~~S.H-~~ Vox Machina. This time, thankfully, _she_ had been the one to pay the price; another failure, and it could be one of _them_ too still, too cold—

_And if you **failed** to bring them back?_

But- But if something happened to one of them, and she wasn’t there to even _try_ , could she live with herself?

_Doubtful. You can barely live with yourself **now**._

And that’s where she found herself—desperate to push herself until she was strong enough on her own, but wanting to be surrounded by, _protected_ by the others; wanting to stay away so as not to bring the group down, but terrified of what could befall them without her.

She had hoped that this break, this endeavor, would bring some sort of clarity; but while she’d at least found and face the questions and doubts, the answers still eluded her. Perhaps they lay further down this path, or another, or perhaps no mortal soul ever truly found them. But two determinations, at least, rang through her mind as she sprang from the deck to Emon’s dock:

_I’m not going to leave my friends._

And:

_No more dying. Any of us._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …And back to more introspection! But I am now officially fully caught up on CR, so now, at least, I should feel more comfortable hopping around various points in all the character arcs for scenes and musings both.


	15. Caleb: In Another Skin, My Heart Beats Freely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 2  
> Character: Caleb Widogast
> 
> The beast was dangerous and not to be trusted…but the animal—the animal could be directed, tamed.

The others never really asked about his recent tendency to Polymorph when caught in a melee fight and low on health—it made sense: buying him time and lending him strength to fight with, after all. They didn’t even comment on how demonstrative of both his anger towards their foes and affection for his friends that he became, not even Jester, the only member of the party who Polymorphed enough to know the affect it had on one’s mind.

What it allowed.

It allowed him to act without thinking (something he could never let himself, as himself, do again), allowed him to trust that his instincts were enough to stop him from harming his friends (they were so much easier to trust when they were the loudest voices in his head, when he was in a form that hadn’t done what he had, _been_ who he had).

It allowed him to be angry without shutting down.

When he raged as the Ape, he could vent it—lash out and _crush_ and _rend_ those foolish enough to come near him (and chase down those wise enough to flee), and, in the aftermath, to find catharsis, relief. (Did the others never see? Never wonder at his post-battle Polymorph-ed antics? Did they never wonder why he often waited minutes after the fighting to drop the form?)

In his own body, with magic at his fingertips, fire in his veins, and death on his tongue, he could _not_ let anger dominate his heart, cloud his mind. Not when there were people around him who could be caught in a stray blast, an ill-thought spell—and not when they needed him to act intelligently, strategically. Not when the Mighty Nein needed him to have the presence of mind for the right spell in the right moment to turn the tide, to do what must be done.

So, he had to not feel so that he could think—in the moment, at least. He’d gotten better about feeling later (or trying to), but by then, things were usually so mixed and muddled after being blocked that his innate sense of order often revolted at the mess.

And so, where and when possible, it was to the Ape or to the Mammoth that he turned, craving the catharsis and freedom as much as the strength and stamina. But it was not always possible. Sometimes magic more than might was needed. Sometimes, the only thing that could be done was tap it all down, be cold, be the good little solider, and—

_(—He is **dead,** what do they want with his body? The leader is casting a spell—Dimension Door—_

—“Counterspell!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too much to say here: just an exploration of thoughts I had regarding Caleb’s two very different responses to crucial battle moments.


	16. Grog: Bigger Than Big

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 1  
> Character: Grog Strongjaw
> 
> Sometimes, the others were just being silly trying to be so smart… other times, maybe they were right…

Grog never understood why other people always made the simple things so… not-simple. Like, feelings for instance: the goliath was familiar with happiness, sadness, anger, boredom—even fear—but everyone else decided those weren’t enough and put other words to them—grief, joy, terror, hatred, and so on—and claimed the all meant ‘slightly different’ things.

Why?

Who needed all those extra words? If you felt happy, you _were_ happy all over, so why did you need a word that meant ‘even happier’? If you were happy, weren’t you as happy as you could be?

Or why did the others claim sometimes that they didn’t know what they were feeling—or that they felt two or more things at once? That didn’t even make any sense: if you were sad and happy at the same time, then you weren’t doing it right—how could you do either right if you tried to do both at the same time? Silly.

(In all things, Grog greatly preferred an all-in, single-minded pursuit to a cautious, multi-fronted approach.)

No, it didn’t make any sense at all to him—until it did.

* * *

It was taking _forever_ —Grog had only found out about Pike’s and Scanlan’s baby a few months ago (or so they kept saying), but it felt like a whole lifetime had passed while he waited for his new little buddy to finally come. And they had said this morning that the baby was coming today—so what was taking so _long_?

Scanlan must’ve been thinking the same thing, ‘cause the bard kept pacing the hallway and darting glances at the door that the local midwife had closed in their faces—the elderly halfling woman having taken over the room beyond with more authority than some generals they had met.

Scanlan had wanted to be in there to help, but the lady refused to budge on the point that seemed so pointless to the two waiting—only Keyleth, recognized as a fellow healer-type had been allowed to go in. Percy and Vex were downstairs, taking care of all the little stuff around the house that Grog didn’t think mattered at the moment.

_The baby is coming!_

But they sure were taking their time getting there—didn’t they know their whole family was there, just waiting to meet them?

* * *

It had felt like days of waiting, but the sun was only just reaching noon when Pike and Scanlan called him in, first of all their friends to meet their new baby.

Their _tiny_ baby—Grog had _never_ met anyone so small as this red-faced, blanket-wrapped screamer. The goliath froze, stunned, and Pike and Scanlan carefully helped him to hold their new daughter. For almost the first time in his life, he wished he wasn’t so big—before, he’d always been strong enough to _protect_ his family; now he was afraid he’d _hurt_ —

“Juniper Rae Shorthalt-Trickfoot,” Pike all but whispered, cutting off his thoughts. He looked over to his first little buddy, and he gave him a big, tired smile. “Meet your Uncle Grog.”

Uncle Grog.

 _Uncle_ Grog.

All at once, Grog felt a feeling that made him kind of understand why someone would want a word that meant happier-than-happy, and even a word that meant mostly-happy-but-a-little-scared-and-kinda-sad-but-not-really-and-you-can’t-explain-why.

The tiny bundle in his arms stopped screaming for a moment, and the tiniest slits of blue appeared, eyes not yet able to focus, but definitely turned in his direction.

Okay. Yeah. Maybe all those other words _weren’t_ so silly after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, I couldn’t resist circling back to the hypothetical Shorthalt-Trickfoot family from a few chapters ago, albeit from a certain uncle’s perspective…


	17. Mollymauk: Little Tings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 2  
> Character: Mollymauk Tealeaf
> 
> You don’t always need grand gestures; little ones often suffice…

“Who the hell is Tracy?”

“Oh, fuck you Molly,” Beau grumbled—the tiefling was _way_ too energetic for that hour of the morning (which is to say, well after 10 A.M., but still…), and enjoying her discomfort _far_ too much. Besides, she had to minimize this fucking hangover before heading to her next class. Bad enough Molly had been there last night to see her start that bar fight—but he’d at apparently overheard a bit of the conversation beforehand.

_Fuck stupid dares and bets and idiot drunk guys saying fucking dumb shit. And fuck friends who don’t fuck off and leave me the fuck alone._

“All I’m saying is, she seems a useful sort of person to know—in selective circumstances…”

Beau growled in his face before stalking out of the kitchen before any of their other housemates could come downstairs and ask how last night had gone.

***

It didn’t take her too long to notice, once she got to campus: there was a not-insignificant crowd clustered in the parking lot nearest to one of the dorms, giggling and pointing their phones at—

_What the **fuck**?_

The douchebag from the night before was spluttering the same sentiment as he stared (through one black eye, a part of her noted with some satisfaction) at his beloved car _completely_ covered in colorful sticky notes (arranged to spell out ‘Fuck You’ atop a rainbow background). The prankster gad then gone a step further, having emptied over the papers and vehicle what must been several canisters worth of—

_< Where the FUCK did u get that much glitter?>_

Molly’s reply was swift in coming (though without the answer she hadn’t honestly expected, anyway).

_< tracy’s a bitch, but that guy’s an asshole.>_

Then:

_< srsly tho. where the FUCK did tracy come from?>_

* * *

Veth’s half of the room was not _messy_ , it was _full_ , the distinction was important. Maybe she had a lot of stuff in a small space, but she knew both what she had and where it went at all times—no small feat, considering the sheer number of knick-knacks, mementos, and keepsakes that she’d brought form home (most made or given by her little Luc, and the end of the semester could _not_ come fast enough).

So, as impossible as it may seem, the halfling _knew_ the instant she walked in that _some_ one had messed with her stuff while she was out—the little cluster of family photos beside her desk! They’d been moved, and—

Her anger dissipated and swiftly as it had arisen: there, in the place of honor she’d intended to put it, was the latest picture Yeza had sent her, printed on photo paper and framed like she hadn’t found the time to do yet.

Grinning up at her in his Halloween costume (a white lab coat, colorful vials in hand—‘a chem’stry student, just like Mommy!’) was her five-year-old son, ready to go trick-or-treating with his father. Veth smiled back, even as she wiped her misty eyes.

As she did, she caught sight of a paper set just in front of the photo on her desk: a hand-made countdown already prepped for her to continue, labeled in a certain tiefling’s unmistakable handwriting:

_‘Days Left Until Winter Break’_

* * *

Jester didn’t often leave her classwork out in the shared areas of the house, but after the in-class critique of her narrative essay, she’d been too tired to even _think_ of making her edits that night, and hadn’t wanted the printed pages, with all the notes scrawled into the margins anywhere _near_ her desk as she worked on her other, more pressing, projects.

It wasn’t that the Communications/Arts double-major couldn’t handle critique (she was in the wrong fields, if she couldn’t), but so much of it all at once had been…well, a bit much, and she knew from experience that a little distance and time before the rewrite was vitally necessary.

Still, she hadn’t meant to leave it out and visible for _everyone_ in the house.

She knew someone had seen it, had likely read it, even before she saw the new notes (in purple, glittery ink—because some of her friends in particular were just as allergic to ‘normal’ as she was), because it had been moved from the end table she’d tossed it onto the evening before to her usual spot in the kitchen, where she’d be sure to see it when she sat down for her morning donut.

Absently chewing, Jester scanned Molly’s additions to the notes she’d been given…her mood improving with every line. He did make some good points (jokes about bullshit aside, the theatre major did have a good sense of storytelling, and this was a _narrative_ essay, after all), but just as frequent, if not more common were notes on things he’d liked, or underlined phrases with his own…unique…commentary beside them—the positive feedback her classmates had mostly forgotten, or thrown in as asides/afterthoughts.

Jester flipped through, a piece of paper slipping out from between the last two pages, Molly’s concluding thoughts on it:

_‘Blueberry,_

_Seriously: strong essay; I know Prof. Orly’s gonna love it. But how the hell did you keep that weasel alive through all that shit? You must be some kind of miracle worker…_

_Which we already knew—you make even Beau smile for crying out loud, and she’s the kind of person who laughs with her fists…_

_You got this,_

_Molly’_

It was a small thing—probably less than ten minutes of reading and making notes—but so much what she’d needed to hear at that point in the semester that she had to hastily wipe away a few tears of gratitude.

_This is **definitely** going in the scrapbook._

* * *

Having known Mollymauk longer than most of the rest of their group, Yasha was more than used to her brother turning to her first when he had an ‘idea’ (re: scheme), a random thought he wanted to share, a joke…even when he was just bored or lonely.

But seriously, how many _< where r u?>_ texts could he send in one day? At least the _< stop moving, dammit!> _one gave her a vague sense of what he wanted, but it was his own fault for trying to chase her down on her busiest day of the week.

(Seriously, with all of the various required classes that were being only offered once in a semester or two and all of the schedule conflicts, it was like the school couldn’t imagine that anyone would take both a major in sports medicine and a minor in music—and that wasn’t even touching the schedule nightmare that was both practice AND rehearsals.)

But the mystery abruptly resolved itself when Molly—looking as turned around and run ragged as _she_ felt—finally rounded a corner into view, two small bouquets of brightly colored flowers in his hands.

“I hit the grocery store after my class this morning,” he began without preamble as he handed her both brightly-hued bunches, “and they were having a sale. Figured you could use a smile—and you could give one of them to that Music Ed major you’ve been pining over all semester, what’s-her-name—”

“Zuala,” Yasha whispered, suddenly flustered at the mere _thought_ , but immediately aware that the class she was en route to (and almost late to) was one of the two she shared with Zuala.

“Right, her,” Molly affirmed casually, as if he’d actually forgotten (which she highly doubted), and took one of the two bouquets back. “I’ll run home and put this one in a vase for you—same window as usual? You go on—and no coming back without a number and possibly a coffee date!”

Then he was gone in a rush of color and energy, leaving her stunned, a little terrified, but—inexplicably—also feeling like a little spontaneity might just be a _wonderful_ idea.

* * *

As much as Fjord tried to play up the whole I’m-just-a-regular-guy-with-nothing-to-hide thing, and as much as he actually _had_ become a more open, forthcoming individual since freshman year (especially after changing majors last semester and even more so since he and Caduceus had started moving closer and closer to being an actual couple), it was still unspoken general knowledge that he still kept some things hidden—

—like his stash of late-night study-session junk food, for instance.

It wasn’t that he was unwilling to share with his friends, his family; it wasn’t that he was afraid that Caduceus would criticize (or worse, silently judge) the unhealthy bounty compared to the admittedly excellent (if short on meat) meals that the firbolg seemed to genuinely enjoy making for the group. It was just…

He liked having a treat, okay? He _was_ happier in his new major, yes, but the workload was a bit heavier now and took longer to get through, _and_ he couldn’t quite shake the feeling he was behind and racing to catch up, so having his ‘secret stash’ at hand just meant having a reward read and accessible when he felt like he’d earned it—or needed it.

Except, now, the whole stash had _vanished_.

The half-orc had maybe two seconds to feel shocked, confused, disappointed—hadn’t even made it all the way to angry—before there was a shuffle and knock at the door.

Not Caduceus—he was working late that night, and not even _he_ knocked before entering his own (shared) room.

Opening the door let in a wave of mouth-watering smells from the kitchen…and the sight of a smirking lavender tiefling standing there, a plate of _homemade_ unhealthy deliciousness in hand (of the smothered-in-cheese-and-bacon-on-top variety, which almost made it _more_ tempting given how Jester’s perpetual sweet tooth kept them well-stocked on sugary delights).

“Ever just get the urge to make something? Anyhow, know you’re busy, just felt your midnight snack game needed an upgrade. Here you go, back to work with you—and I won’t tell Caduceus if you won’t.”

The plate was shoved into his hands an Mollymauk had vanished by the time Fjord realized certain implications. Eh, he could make Molly tell him where he’d hidden the missing junk food when he finished his assignment….

…besides, the plate was getting cold.

* * *

Caduceus’ Saturday was off to a _terrible_ start.

He was nothing if not a creature of routine—which, on Saturdays meant getting up early enough to finish his share of the weekly cleaning chores before anyone else in the house was awake, then vanishing at last to the park with a packed lunch to do whatever reading he hadn’t finished yet, before taking a walk and—

Well, it didn’t matter now, did it? He’d overslept: could tell from the angle of the sun as soon as he opened his eyes, before he’d even reached for his phone. It was a miracle one of the others wasn’t already up and making noise enough to wake him—so much for his one day of peace and solitude. His phone was almost fully charged, and it wasn’t set to ‘no interruptions’ or ‘silent,’ so why hadn’t his—

The alarm for ‘Saturday Chores’ was still there, but greyed out. _Some_ one had turned it off. (It was a short list of suspects).

Only two other individuals in the house knew enough about the shenanigans pulled in the Clay household to include Caduceus in any of the prank wars, and of those two, only of them was actually inclined to _act_ on that knowledge.

Grumbling and growling under his breath about how he’d get back at his brother (quietly enough to not disturb the still-sleeping Fjord: no need to get anyone outside of the Clay family caught up in his bad mood), Caduceus made his way to the door—

—which refused to budge, tanks to a makeshift contraption on the other side.

If he hadn’t already known, this sealed it: Molly had pulled this exact trick on him a few years before (though calling it a ‘trick’ felt overly generous, given its lack of creativity only marginally covered by the time it took to undo).

He really _was_ in a bad mood, now.

***

The make-shift barricade being more a speedbump than true obstacle to his morning didn’t improve Caduceus’ temper as he entered the main living area—

—to find it already spotlessly clean, all his chores already done and his usual lunch bag packed and sitting beside his stack of books, a note resting on top in his brother’s handwriting:

_‘How the FUCK do you wake up this early after working a closing shift every week—sleep in for once, damn it!_

_But seriously: scram and enjoy your ‘outside time’. Take a fucking nap or something.’_

* * *

Strange as it was to think, though Caleb was the ‘quintessential loner,’ he was feeling _lonely_.

Funny how quickly certain people could become so much the norm that the solitude he used to claim to value he now could stand best in small doses, preferring the company of people even besides his cat.

Unfortunately, the class- and assignment-load of a physics major meant he was apart from the others far more than he found that he liked (he’d only once made the mistake of trying to complete his assignments in the living area _once_ —from then on, he rushed through his work at the library on campus before returning to the house with attention undivided).

The arrangement had been working fine—and still was, for the most part—but as the semesters progressed, it seemed that the theatre department in particular was offering most of its classes in the late afternoon and even some evenings, pushing a particular tiefling’s schedule more and more opposite his own. (and to top it all off, now that Molly had been cast in a few shows, the few evening he _would_ have had with his boyfriend were usually spoken for thanks to rehearsals. Caleb was trying _very_ hard not to be so selfish as to begrudge Molly the very thing he’d come to this school to do, but in his own, private thoughts, he could let himself feel lonely.)

So, when he got Molly’s _< u busy 2nite?>_ text just as he was leaving the library, Caleb hardly dared to believe his luck.

_< I’m not, but aren’t you? Isn’t your Voice and Movement class this evening?>_

_< not meeting 4 assignment work. need ur help. moka?>_

It may have taken Caleb a moment to decipher—he wasn’t aware that performance-focused classes also did the whole not-meeting-in-person-so-you-have-time-to-work-on-the-big-project thing, to say nothing of the fact that _Molly_ of all people would actually use the free time for the professor’s intended purpose—but less than a heartbeat to decide.

_< I’m on my way.>_

***

They met in the café off-campus that Molly had suggested, and Caleb wasn’t sure what to expect—a notebook, a pile of papers, a script a laptop, whatever one needed for a theatre class’s assignment—but instead it was just him, his boyfriend, and their usual drinks doing nothing more than talking, spending time together.

Caleb was all too happy to oblige, but he started feeling a little guilty when they eventually left the café to take a meandering stroll down the streets of their little college town without even a passing mention of the mysterious assignment. Just the two of them together, red eyes hardly ever straying from him as they made the most of this rare time together...

Finally, though, Molly had to return to the Com-Arts building and that evening’s rehearsal. “Thanks for the help, love,” he said with a parting kiss, and Caleb blinked, confused.

“But we never worked on—”

“—my assignment to study another person’s vocal and physical mannerisms? I don’t know if I’ve put in this much work all semester. Just couldn’t tell you what I was doing without making you hyper-aware of what you were doing.”

With that, he was off, homework complete, and the loner now (at least a little) less lonely.

* * *

The week had been _terrible_ —lousy weather, classwork ramping up before finals, and longer and longer rehearsals that left him feeling like he was trading his friend-family for his theatre-family, as it now felt like he hadn’t seen the others more than in passing for _days_.

And, to top it off, tonight’s rehearsal had gone to shit for him, leaving Molly feeling as though he’d (metaphorically—but almost literally, as well) fallen flat on his face in front of the director and the graduate students that made up most of the cast of this show and still seemed not quite sure what to make of him yet.

And now, here he was, soaked to the skin with rain-water, miserable, and half-shivering in a darkened and seemingly empty house.

“Hello? Guys?”

No reply.

_Shit. With my luck, I missed out on whatever impromptu adventure Jester roped the others into. Damn._

Soaked clothes shed and swapped for something warm and comfortable, Molly ragged himself to the living room, stopping in the doorway as his dark-vision showed him the sprawling pillow-fort, even as his ears made out the various giggles, grumbles, and ‘shhs’ of his friends.

Jester poked her head out, grinning impishly up at him. “Well, are you coming or not? We’ve been waiting for you to bet back for _hours_!”

An exaggeration to be sure, but the implication that his week from hell hand _not_ gone unnoticed by the others had Molly’s bad mood almost completely gone.

(The rest vanished as he dove in and worked his way to the center of the cuddle pile, deliberately shoving Beau just enough to hear her grumble before he settled, the others shifting as best they could in the confined space to allow the tactile tiefling to claim his favored spot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. Figured I’d give the old housemates/college/university AU a shot here. I liked the ideas I came up with, so will probably do some more here, if not in this series, then maybe for CRInktober or my December ficlet compilation. Since I plan to revisit, I won’t overexplain my thoughts on majors/ships/how narrative beats translated to this world, save to explain the Molly/Yasha/Caduceus dynamic:   
> I have a weird head cannon specifically for modern AU’s with both Molly and Cad in them from the word go—I got the idea stuck in my head that it’d be fun if they were brothers, but I didn’t want to lose Molly’s sibling-like bond with Yasha, either. My solution? The Clays, at some indeterminate points, adopted both Molly and Yasha, making the trio siblings.   
> Probably silly, but it makes me smile, so here it is.


	18. Vax'ildan: Divine Wrath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 1  
> Character: Vax’ildan
> 
> In another world, another life, the same deal may have had different terms…

So much stays the same…

Everything, in fact—up until a point. Right up until that fateful bargain in the sunken tomb, cradling his sister’s too-still form even as he screamed his challenge to the dark specter barely visible, furious and desperate and reckless in his anger. Right up until the Raven Queen accepted.

(And for a little time afterwards, too.)

But as Vax’ildan floundered in the dark, trying to understand what had happened—what She wanted him to do, to be—things progressed a little differently this time, in this reality.

In this tale, behind and beneath his confusion and desperation was a simmering anger that didn’t feel like it came entirely from him—it was as if the armor he reluctantly donned was imbued with the previous champion’s spirit seething at being buried, forgotten, abandoned.

The alien, separate sensation grew less and less distinct as time went on, melding seamlessly with the rage of his own that he carried—at being torn from his first home, being rejected, belittled, at a world determined to shit on him and his own time and again, every time they thought they could grasp a shred of happiness, and especially at those who dared even _think_ of hurting his family.

(The Raven Queen still called him her Champion—but in a way that made it sound very much like ‘Weapon’.)

Grog didn’t know what to think when Vax began joining him and Pike in the mansion’s sandy training pit night after night, or when the rogue made a point to acquire a two-handed sword that wouldn’t fit with his usual fighting style of sneaking around the battlefield. ‘Just in case,’ was all he had said. And, ‘it just feels right.’

The first time that Vax’ildan gave over to his rage in battle, laying aside his customary deft, precise attacks for fury and brutality echoing with the goddess’ power, the rest of Vox Machina could only stare in varying degrees of shock and fear—and even grief.

But Vax found in his rage, release—once it drained away, there was peace; once he accepted it, there was certainty. It was a strange foundation to rebuild himself upon, and not one he would have chosen for himself, but it was a solid one nevertheless, he found.

It some time to convince the others that he truly _was_ alright with this path, this calling—that he was coming to contentment, if not happiness with it—but in time, even Vex and Keyleth came around. (It was Grog and Pike, unsurprisingly, who were first to accept this change, and it was in working with them that he finally harnessed his rage, learning to hold it back when necessary and slip through the shadows, unseen, with his old skill, and how to channel it when it became necessary, how to embrace and better heed his Lady’s bloody calling.)

_Spill blood to protect life. Destroy those who profane death._

So much changed, yet so much remained the same: the calling, once answered, held to with the same unwavering devotion; the same hope for a peaceful and happy life when the time for war and rage was done; the same love…the same fall, the same (temporary) reprieve—

—the same cloaked and masked figure calling him home in the end, a trail of raven feathers and snowdrops behind him, stretching back to the same family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know mechanically this would be a terrible multi-class combination (Yes, the intended implication was Path of the Zealot barbarian). NARRATIVELY, however, I find it interesting—Vax was impulsive enough from the get-go, but pairing that with a barbarian’s reckless abandon and a zealot’s devotion to their patron? Not to mention the possible dichotomy of a barbarian’s rage with the peace Vax ultimately found in his calling… wouldn’t have worked in-game, but definitely a fun plot bunny to play with for a bit!


	19. Yasha: That Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 2  
> Character: Yasha Nydoorin
> 
> Surely this night was supposed to feel different…right?

It should be the best night of her life—

Her mind was her own after months of being nothing more than a puppet; the one who’d gleefully pulled at her strings had been killed, unmade, and finally destroyed (in that order); she was free to do as she willed, go where she wished, be with the people she wanted…

It should be the best night of her life—

Against all reason and possible arguments, the Might Nein had come for her; they’d fought for her and not stopped fighting until she was free (and even then, they’d merely shifted to fighting along _with_ her to ensure that she stayed free); they’d huddled close about her, taken for granted that she would stay with them, and even now pressed close against her even though they had the room (and rooms) to spread out…

It should be the best night of her life—

But the weight of all she’d done still pressed on her, making it hard to breathe: all the blood, all the carnage, all the death (so many monks in blue garb cut down by _her_ —they reminded her so much of Beau, anyone of them could’ve _been_ Beau—then it _was_ Beau—Beau on the ground, impaled on _her_ sword); the others were kind, but she didn’t _deserve_ kindness, she didn’t _want_ kindness; she wanted anger and pain and punishment, and they refused to give it to her, instead rising themselves to shield her from it; (but they couldn’t shield her from the thought and the memories and the nightmares—from being sickened by the sliver of her mind that had been tempted to give up, to give in, to want it)…

—It was the worst night of her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. Just a little character drabble trying to get inside Yasha’s head, since I haven’t done all that much writing for her. Not too much to say, to be honest, most of my attention this week has been on a bigger project for later this year (hopefully. Who knows with my writing schedule and summer plans.).


	20. Keyleth: Fall with You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 1  
> Character: Keyleth
> 
> There was wonder in the waning-time…

It was funny: they’d spent so long questing and adventuring, always looking over their shoulder for the next threat (or the current one), every peaceful or happy moment still tinged with fear and uncertainty, that it had taken many months to fully accept and grow accustomed to the time of peace that followed their post-hells parting.

(Of course, Keyleth had had to adapt to her new position of leadership, and all the fears thus accompanying.)

But with Vax at her side, as he had promised to always be, and the rest of her friends never more than a transport-via-plants away (save for the still-missing bard, the one sour note), the Voice of the Tempest gradually relaxed into this post-Conclave reality…

* * *

Autumn crept early into the mountaintop village, gentling the summer’s stifling heat and painting the surrounding woods with a russet blush that echoed Keyleth’s new mantle. The winds grew ever more playful, the sky took on the shade of blue so indescribably tied to the season, and all the heat-dulled edges grew clear and crisp again, a sort of returning even as all of nature prepared itself for the coming dormant-time.

This had always been Keyleth’s favorite time—this razor’s edge between life and death in the seasonal cycle, the harvest-time, the last she would see of many of her forest-friends until spring came again—but having Vax here, getting to show him Zephrah under its vibrant autumnal cloak (as she had introduced him to it in every other season in the last year) let her see it with fresh eyes again, and whenever her duties allowed her a moment of her own, she would take his hand, meet his smile with one of her own, and wordlessly lead him to some part of the forest he’d not seen yet.

* * *

Yes, after nearly a year the druid and the paladin had finally accepted this peaceful, happy existence now stretching before them, looking forward with eager anticipation to what the future had in store for them…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short little drabble this week, returning to an image I think I played around with for a CRInktober prompt last year, but I couldn’t help it—I’m moving away from the mountains, soon, so I won’t get to see the colors of the leaves this autumn, and I guess I got a bit nostalgic…


	21. Caduceus: A Part Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 2  
> Character: Caduceus Clay
> 
> Near or far, he knew where he belonged—what he was a part of…

All those years in the Blooming Grove—all the time he’d spent as its last keeper, the only one at home—Caduceus had tried to tell himself that he wasn’t truly alone. After all, the Wildmother was always with her followers—right? And…and, however far away his family was, they still _were_ a family: a part of each other.

He _wasn’t_ alone. _(He **wasn’t**.)_

It got a lot easier to believe that when the strange group of people showed up and asked him to help them rescue their missing friends (of course he agreed to help—he understood better than they knew what an incomplete family felt like).

It was so clearly the sign he’d been waiting for that Caduceus barely even stopped to think how great it was to be around other people again (no, really: that _wasn’t_ even a _part_ of why he went along… honestly…) And, sure: they were a bunch of broken people in clear need of help, but hey—that just meant he’d have plenty of projects to keep him busy while he waited for the next sign.

The signs came, bit by bit, and he tried his best to follow them when he could, but there were just so many people who needed their help, to say nothing of how much all of his—friends? Yeah, friends—needed to take care of their own stuff, so, very often, that was where his focus went.

(That was what you did for family, after all.)

But, at last, they pried the matter out of him and made their way to the Menagerie as quickly as they could (almost _too_ quickly for his fear to come around to), finding there the terrible truth of why none of his family had ever returned.

For most of that fight, Caduceus found his attention divided between the creature (and his friends) and the stone forms of his family. For all his care, one was still dashed to pieces, and only the desperate intervention of his friends saved his aunt—saved all his family, truth be told.

With his family around him again, Caduceus felt a weight lift from his shoulders that he hadn’t realized (or, perhaps, he’d simply forgotten) that he was carrying—felt light enough to joke, to tease, to _play_ in ways he hadn’t since being left behind.

He _wasn’t_ alone. _(He **really** wasn’t.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know these are a little short (with a few exceptions, most of them will be for the next few weeks). I’m in the middle of preparing to move, so am writing these a couple of a time to have a buffer during the move, and hopefully I will return to a less-rushed feeling style in September or so (Please bear with me in the meantime, I will do my best to post as close to Saturdays as possible, and maybe double-post if I fear I may miss an upcoming week.)


	22. Taryon: Just for You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 1/Darrington Brigade One-Shot  
> Character: Taryon Darrington
> 
> Idle hands are the devil’s workshop…but his hands may have created something worse…

Things had been very quiet lately for the Darrington Brigade, and as the lull between clients grew longer and longer, it was the leader and founder himself who seemed to struggle the most with the prolonged inactivity—how could he prove to the world just how brilliant he was if it never gave him the opportunity?

As they so often did at such questions, Taryon’s thoughts turned to Vox Machina, and what they would’ve done. Well, setting aside the inimitable fact that adventure seemed to simply _find_ them quite without any of them seeming to try, he knew form many late-night talks with darling Vex that, especially early on, when they weren’t given opportunities to display their talents, they made them.

_That’s it!_

* * *

The next few weeks or so were quiet ones on the Darrington Estate—unless one went anywhere near Taryon’s workshop (which all of the Brigade members had learned the hard way to not do, by now). But eventually, the artificer emerged with his ‘masterpieces’ and began his rounds of the manor house.

* * *

“Owlbear, I have taken it upon myself to craft these goggles and enchant them to give you darkvi—uh, I mean, to _enhance_ your…um, shall we call it Owl Sight? Owl Vision? Anyhow, now you’ll be able to see in the dark—”

“Owlbears gave impeccable sight no matter the blackness of night.”

“Er, yes. And now yours will be _even better_.”

“…. Thank you.”

With that, the goggles were snatched from his hand and the door was slammed in his face.

“You’re welcome?”

* * *

The concept for Damian’s ‘upgrade’ had been simple: no one could deny the fighter’s skill with the stiletto knives never far from hand, but it was also hard to imagine blades so small doing too terribly much in the way of damage.

The solution?

Why, exploding knives, of course!

* * *

“Taryon, I already have a staff that I can use. Besides, this is…more of a rod, no?”

“For now it is, Farriwen, which makes it so much easier to carry without accidentally hitting people or things—”

“—I do not do that—”

“—and then you simply press this button to release the spring-loaded extensions, and it expands into a full staff. No need to thank me, Farriwen, just knowing you love it is appreciation enough for my genius.”

“…Sure.”

* * *

Hazel’s had been trickier, not in concept—as surely what the bard needed first and foremost was a way of duplicating her brilliant wax cylinders after recording his dazzling exploits, both for eventual distribution and for sake of having back up copies in the unlikely case of disaster—but in execution. Fortunately, Doty 2.0 was available to assist with the enchantment (practically volunteered to—and wasn’t that so nice?) and in the construct’s skilled hand, the Wand of duplication was eventually completed.

* * *

“And for the two of you, the best idea involved delving into the fields of alchemy and potion making—not my usual areas of expertise, true, but also no match for _my_ genius!—in order to create for you, Buddy, this Potion of Shrinking! (For those times we need to get him into tight spaces, Mac, you understand). And, since he won’t be able to carry you while shrunk, Mac, I made you this Potion of Growing! Ah, yes: I am brilliant. Brilliant!”

* * *

“Lionel—”

“It’s alright, boss: I understand.”

“Lionel—”

“They’re the new guys, you gotta make them feel welcome; even though you didn’t make _me_ anything when _I_ joined.”

“Lionel—”

“And, I mean, I _did_ kinda get taken over and turn on you guys a few months ago. I mean, I know I apologized a lot for how I hurt you guys a little; so I guess you’re still mas at me for _that_.”

“Lionel—”

“I’m just saying that it’s okay that you didn’t want to make _me_ anything even when you were already making presents for everybody else…”

“LionelImadeyouthisquackinghammerjusttakeitalreadyit’sreallyheavy.”

The bard-barian’s eyes flew open wide, and he reached out for the gargantuan weapon with what could only be called reverence.

“Phew. Alright. Good. now, it is **_extremely_** loud, so probably best to use it only on actual missions, and only ones where we’re outside—”

He got no further as he had to duck to avoid Lionel’s test-swing, the hammer slamming to the hall floor with a window-shaking, ear-popping, chest-rattling—

**_ *QUACK!* _ **

* * *

Taryon winced at the bloodied and burned hands that Macaroni Samsonite was preparing to heal.

“Damian, I am _so_ sorry. I was sure that I had tested the timing to ensure the knives wouldn’t detonate until _after_ you threw them. I assure you, the design flaw will be found and eliminated—”

“Throw them? I was supposed to _throw_ them?”

“Um…yes? That…was the intent behind the **_exploding knives_** that I made you…”

**_ *QUACK!* _ **

“Oh… Who the fuck throws their weapon away? That’s just fucking stupid…”

* * *

“Taryon?”

“Yes, Farriwen?”

“I would have appreciated some amount of warning that the staff you gave me was intended to be used as a ranged weapon, not for close quarters.”

“What? No: the _staff_ was definitely designed for melee combat, not ranged.”

“…I see. Then perhaps the ‘spring-loaded extensions’ should have actually been in some way attached to the staff itself so that, when triggered, they do _not_ launch themselves out of the rod and into—say, a distant window—with the equivalent force of a longbow?”

**_ *QUACK!* _ **

“…Ah, yes. I can see how that adjustment could be…useful…”

* * *

Taryon stared at Owlbear the next time the two crossed paths…or rather, at his head…

“Um, Owlbear, those goggles I made you—”

“Give superior owl-vision in the darkest of night. Yes. I have noticed.”

“Yes, well, they _were_ meant for _your_ eyes, you see…”

Owlbear regarded the artificer in utter confusion (and perhaps his ever-present cowl did, too, behind its new goggles…)

**_ *QUACK!* _ **

“You know what? Never mind.”

* * *

Slowly, Lawrence turned to face his husband, who was still watching the hilariously sad scene of the now over-large ogre stomp around in search of his even-smaller-than-normal halfling friend, who was scrambling around in a panic to avoid the massive foot falls.

“Tary, you were _sure_ that you gave each of them the correct potions?”

“Was I? yes. Am I? No, not anymore.”

“And when will it wear off?”

**_ *QUACK!* _ **

“A few hours…”

* * *

“Say, Taryon—”

“OH, WHAT **_NOW_**?”

Hazel blinked in surprise, waited a silent moment, then continued in a slightly subdued voice. “I think something may have happened to that nifty wand you gave me. Upon my first attempt to use it to duplicate one of my wax cylinders, the wand instead duplicated _itself_. All further attempts and experiments with the original and subsequent wands produced the same results, and they may also now be replicating themselves without input at an astronomical rate, now. I’m sure I did not tamper with it in anyway, so I think that the enchantment itself may have been a little…buggy.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Tary turned to his ever-present companion. “Doty?”

If ever an expressionless, inorganic construct to could conceive to look innocent, Doty did. “Tary?”

**_ *QUACK!* _ **

_Sigh._

“Remind me to destroy that hammer—when Lionel isn’t looking.”

“Tary.”

**_ *QUACK!* _ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so glad Travis brought Macaroni back for his Narrative Telephone cameo, because I already had this story written and ready to go—I had to do at least ONE with the Brigade, after all!


	23. Fjord: Just a Nice—

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 2  
> Character: Fjord
> 
> Maybe a little boredom would be a welcome change…

Fjord was used to monotony—life had not been particularly interesting or exciting in the orphanage, and while it _was_ a nice break to stop in a variety of ports, one day at sea is generally the same as any other, if all goes well.

Still, it had certainly grown _far_ less common since meeting the rest of the Mighty Nein; there were times he almost felt as though he’d forgotten what it was like to be bored.

But here they were, the negotiations (seemingly) successful behind them, and nearly a week of sailing ahead of them before arriving at Rumblecusp and whatever Jester and the Traveler were planning (or would plan…eventually…) between them.

True, he _was_ captain now, which was a little different; and the ever-looming threat of Uk’otoa striking again in revenge meant that he couldn’t ever be _fully_ at peace, but still: in a way, he was looking forward to the coming monotony—

“Uh…Captain? We are being pursued by a tiny island.”

_—Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite shorter than last week’s, but to be honest, I wrote both of them in one day, and I think it’s clear enough which story ate up all of my creative energy at the time…


	24. Vex'ahlia: Priceless Treasures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 1  
> Character: Vex’ahlia
> 
> This was not what she’d envisioned, so long ago…

For so long, ‘family’ had meant nothing more than Vax’ildan and herself—anything else and any future ‘somedays’ were set aside in the struggle first to survive, and then to never struggle again.

Eventually, without quite realizing it, ‘family’ had come to mean this mismatched group of people who’d grown from an alliance of convenience into something deeper and indelible without any sort of idea as to how it had happened.

And slowly, after navigating years of love and loss, hardship and hope, Vex’ahlia realized that ‘family’ was something she and Percy wanted to build together.

* * *

Vesper Elaina de Rolo came first, with her mother’s black hair, her father’s blue eyes, and Vox Machina’s thirst for adventure. The curious, energetic, caution-less girl did love her home of Whitestone, and took it upon herself to ensure that absolutely _no_ one messed with her younger siblings (except herself, of course), but it was clear even early on, in the way her eyes always strayed to the horizon, that she’d soon enough seek out the wider world.

* * *

Two years after Vesper, the twins were born—Ludwig Frederick de Rolo and Whitney Johana de Rolo, brown-haired and brown-eyed and nearly inseparable, save when Ludwig sought the peace of woodland solitude and Whitney set to tinkering and building toys and trinkets at her workbench. It was hard for their parents _not_ to notice and recognize the way the two looked out for each other, or the way that their occasional teasing or bickering failed to entirely hide the deep bond between them…

* * *

When the twins were three and Vesper was five, little Percival Henrich de Rolo joined the family (Henrich de Rolo being an ancestor whose story they liked enough to borrow his name when Vex’ahlia found herself unable to name any of their children Vax’ildan, like they had once thought they might…). He was a quiet, serious child from the start, with a gentle heart and soul that challenged assumptions some might be tempted to draw from his eyes, teeth, horn, and tail.

(Once, when the young tiefling felt too singled out, too different from the rest of his family, it was his brother Ludwig who pulled him aside, pointed out that his silvery-white skin and hair echoed the very stone of the Alabaster Sierras that had birthed Whitestone—he was no outsider, but _belonged_ so deeply that it could not be hidden; he was and always would be a part of this place as it was a part of him.)

But more than simply Whitestone itself, the younger Percival found himself drawn time and again to the nearly-deserted shrine to the Raven Queen. He would sit in silent contemplation for hours at a time, and soon took it upon himself to clean, restore, and care for the once-temple made for an uncle he had never met. Vex worried, of course—the goddess had taken so much from her, already—but she also knew better than most the way the call of a deity could press upon a mortal’s heart, and did not interfere. (While she had been unable to give any of her children Vax’s name, she was beginning to think that her second son may one day add it to his own—and found that she was finally at peace with that thought.)

* * *

Oliver Julius de Rolo, the last of the five de Rolo children was born two years after his brother, and quickly grew skilled at getting the most mileage out of his position as the baby of the family—as much as his older siblings would let him get away with it.

Percy and Vex were more than a little worried when their youngest took extreme interest in Scanlan’s stories and especially his spells—a worry that didn’t really fade at all when Olly began to lean more towards wizard’s study than bard’s songs: his undeniable preference and visible specialization being magic that was loud, disruptive, and explosive….

* * *

Yes, this was not the family Vex’ahlia had ever thought that she’d have, even before Syngorn, but it was _better_ and it was _hers_ and she wouldn’t trade it for the world—no, she’d _fight_ the world itself to keep them safe—

…Like she’d always done for her family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I’ve written about my head cannon for the Shorthalt-Trickfoot babies, so I thought I’d give the de Rolo quarter-elves a go. (Also, de Rolo tiefling because I, like so many others, decided that it must be so, in our worlds, at least.)  
> And, to address the decision not to name any of the kids after Vax—Watsonian explanation: pretty much what I said in the story, that is, Vex just couldn’t bring herself to, for a variety of reasons (too close/too soon/not wanting to even subconsciously look to that child to be ‘just like Vax’). I do think that Percy Jr. is going to at least add Vax’ildan to his name rather than create a whole new name for himself (he may switch around the order a bit, but I don’t think he’d drop any of the family names).  
> Doylist explanation? …I couldn’t come up with a name that combined Vax’ildan with any of the de Rolo names (or ones that sounded like they could be from PAST de Rolos) that I liked the sound of. It just didn’t flow as either first or middle name, so I went with the compromise instead.  
> And, yes, should the kids adventure in later years, the breakdown would probably be:  
> Vesper—Swashbuckler Rogue (Because, while I don’t think it’s remotely true, I found the commenter saying ‘what if Shelda on the Ball Eater is Vesper grown up’ amusing enough to head cannon in my fic universe, at least.)  
> Whitney—Artificer (Subclass TBD)  
> Ludwig—Either Ranger or Druid—can’t decide  
> Percy Jr.—Grave Cleric (of the Raven Queen, duh.)  
> Oliver—Evocation Wizard


	25. Jester: What to Do?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 2  
> Character: Jester Lavorre
> 
> If you can’t find something fun to do, homemade is fine…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double-posting this week, sine I likely will not have time to post next week. Back to a short one again, I know: hopefully things will calm down soon and be more conducive to creative writing.

Where was the Traveler?

Lately, it seemed that Jester’s friend was coming less and less often, leaving the young woman for weeks or months at a time without even a whisper or flash of green.

She was _bored_.

The pranks that she came up with when he was brainstorming with her were so much better than any of the ideas that she had now, and she didn’t feel like re-reading any of her books (for the twentieth time) or painting anything (she didn’t even have any good ideas for pictures that she could hide a dick in.)

Jester heaved a sigh and flopped back onto her bed with an almighty groan, half-shouting at the ceiling: “Traveler! Come _on_ —we can totally prank someone and have a good time!”

Wait…that was it! If she pulled a _great_ trick with all the magic the Traveler had been teaching her lately, _that_ should get his attention and he’d just _have_ to come and hang out with her some more! And she’d just had the most wonderful idea: Lord Sharpe would be there any moment now…

_…And wouldn’t he just look so funny in Mama’s girdle?_


	26. Percy: On the Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 1  
> Character: Percival de Rolo
> 
> Vex hadn’t seen Percy in nearly two days. It just might be time to worry….

With the defeat of Vecna, the rescue of Grog’s soul, the final defeat of Sylas Briarwood, AND their wedding now a few years behind them, the days of Vex’ahlia finding Percival locked away in his workshop or the library were now almost nonexistent.

Almost.

(The clock tower did _not_ count—it was in the middle of the town square, with no doors to lock or too many places to vanish except inside the tower itself. If she needed/wanted him, he wasn’t hard to find and usually didn’t hesitate to come.)

That being said, it did still happen from time to time. Like now: Vex took one look at her husband, sat in the middle of the castle’s library, surrounded by nearly a dozen books, half-open scrolls, and sheafs of paper (some with his hand-written notes scrawled in still-drying ink), saw the dark circles under his eyes, and felt fairly certain that he’d likely eaten about as much as he’d slept since starting whatever this research was (which was to say: hardly at all).

Vex’ahlia felt her stomach twist with worry (or was that just one of the twins kicking?): had something gravely serious come up? Whispered dreams? Old memories? Had one of the others asked for help he hadn’t told her about yet? “Darling?” she began gently, only for Percy to startle, then turn to her with a half-sheepish expression.

“Yes, Vex’ahlia”

She indicated the mess, his state, and the general condition of the library with a single gesture. “What is all this about?”

“Well,” Percy started, then stopped, looking even _more_ embarrassed than before. (She was now less worried and more…intrigued? Confused? Something between he two.) “I was working on the clock tower plans and double-checking my notes against Scanlan’s journal (yes, not the most reliable source, I know, but better than nothing) and I got to the point where he noted down that Gilmore had said that he was a ‘Rune Child’—”

A vague memory stirred at that, but Percy was already moving his explanation along.

“Obviously, we’ll leave that part out, as per Gilmore’s request, but I _had_ always meant to research just what that meant. It’s an interesting history—what remnants are left, after the Calamity—but what caught my attention most were these ‘runes’ themselves. They’re unlike any sigils I’ve ever seen Scanlan, Pike, Keyleth—even Taryon—use. I started to wonder if they might be a part of a root language that would become the modern Draconic, given that language’s inherent arcane ties, but any evidence is inconclusive at best of course, the more one looks into the history of Draconic language and culture, the more one finds references to cultures even older—the clearest indications we have of what pre-Calamity life may have been like, but they’re dreadfully obscure, unless one—”

“Percy! Darling,” Vex cut him off with a sigh and a shake of her head. “Go _eat_ , take a bath, and _go to bed_.”

He blinked at her, momentarily confused, then seemed to realize what time—and day—it was, then looked around his hectic, ramshackle set up. “Perhaps I let myself get a little…distracted…”

Vex’ahlia had to chuckle as she took his hand and helped him up. “You are _so_ lucky that I find your insatiable curiosity endearing rather than annoying. Come on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too much to say here, other than I was trying to see if I could write the fantasy equivalent of someone going down the ‘related article on Wikipedia’ rabbit hole. Because, let’s face it: of all of Vox Machina, Percy would.


	27. Veth: Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 2  
> Character: Veth Brenatto
> 
> She can be observant…when she wants to be…

Veth does _not_ spy on her ~~fellow Mighty N~~ ~~friends~~ family, thank you very much. That would be rude and invasive and just not right—so of course she would _never_ do that.

…She just happens to be _very_ good at ‘incidentally’ overhearing when the others need something.

* * *

Yasha didn’t talk much about her book or the collection between its pages—even within the Mighty Nein, she didn’t think she’d told _all_ of them that she was gathering flowers for her dead wife, they just knew that she liked flowers.

But after an incident in one town where she’d lingered behind the group to whisper a request to a particular noble for a bloom or two from a particularly eye-catching plan in his garden, only to be rudely and vehemently rejected, the Aasimar woke to the sight of a bouquet that seemed to be half the flowers from the bush, with a note ‘for Beau’ beside it, and a single stem with an exquisite, pristine blossom with a near-matching note, ‘for Zuala.’

She took a long, deep breath of the scent before tenderly pressing the flower into the book.

* * *

Caduceus generally tried not to let on how much his continual dreams of the living city were still bothering him, and had confided only in Beau (or so he thought) that he was now struggling to sleep. Yet _some_ how a small flask of something herbal had found its way into his pouch of teas and cooking herbs, with an alchemists’ usage and dosage notes, and suggestions for what foods or drink to pair it with to ensure a full night’s restful slumber.

* * *

Fjord and Beau could’ve _sworn_ that their conversation about the future (…and Jester…and Yasha…) had been private and obscured by the clamor of Traveler Con, but ever since, the monk had been finding various flowers snuck into her bag, usually right before the barbarian approached her. Fjord had likewise been finding notes directing him to the best bakeries in every town that they went to…and pastry shops…and curiosity shops…and joke shops…and art stores…

* * *

Jester had let slip maybe _once_ that, other than Uthodorn’s cupcakes, no baked goodies had quite measured up to her favorites from Nicodranas. Ever since, whenever they spent two weeks or more away from Jester’s home town, various home-made goodies would appear in her bag, every time stumbling closer and closer to the taste she remembered as the cook practiced. Maybe they weren’t always ‘good,’ but they _were_ perfect.

* * *

And Caleb? Well, the wizard had only to so much as _look_ at a book or set of magical supplies/components to find the required gold ‘mysteriously’ in his pouch. Sometimes he used it, sometimes he gave it back, but he _always_ tried to find a way of repaying his dearest friend.

* * *

No, Veth did _not_ spy, eavesdrop, or otherwise invade the privacy of her friends…she just…er, ‘aggressively listened’ (from out of sight) for ways to help them out…

…That was alright—right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, not too much to say about this one, but I do have an announcement of sorts, I suppose. Last year, I participated in CRInktober on Tumblr as a writer (and later posted the 31 ficlets to my AO3 profile), and I am pleased to announce I will be doing so again, this time posting them here simultaneous with my Tumblr (@ModernDayBard). Look for that starting on October 1st!


	28. Scanlan: A Time to Mourn, A Time to...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 1  
> Character: Scanlan Shorthalt
> 
> What in the Nine Hells was he supposed to do now?

How do you mourn your own death?

There didn’t seem to be much of a precedent that Scanlan Shorthalt could find—as far as he could see, people either stayed dead, or got up and kept on living without even a backwards glance at the blood-stained battlefield or temple floor.

(Scanlan hadn’t gotten up once already before, but he’d only pretended to go on living.)

What the fuck was _wrong_ with these people? How did they not drown in their own brains thinking about the fact that they _died_ and got pulled back by a literal hand of divinity? How did Percy, the _king_ of over-thinking, not get paralyzed by the realization that, by all rights, he should be dead and gone and buried multiple times over by now? How did none of them see how _wrong_ this was?

(How was he supposed to face his daughter after failing her twice in twenty-four hours?

But everyone around him kept popping up again like the most determined prank candles, charging right back into battle after danger like they truly believed that death could not be so cruel as to be permanent—or like they truly believed this fight was worth the risk anyway—and they just _expected_ that he’d do the same.

No.

Not anymore.

Call it selfish, call it cruel, call it the dickiest of dick moves, but he was _not_ going to follow these assholes into any more fights, he was _not_ going to pretend that nothing was wrong, that nothing had happened.

…

How do you mourn your own death?

Scanlan didn’t know, but he sure as hell meant to figure it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some characters I feel I have a better grasp on writing their headspace than others, but even the ones I struggle with have moments or struggles that all but beg me to experiment with that playground. (It just usually tends to be a pretty bad spot for the character in question.) Cue the Scanlan angst!
> 
> Anyhow, here’s a reminder that come October 1st, I will be posting a CR ficlet every day in a new story entitled 2020 CRInktober Ficlets. I will still be posting regular weekly ficlets on Saturday, but those will be in fandoms other than CR so I don’t drive myself mad (check out the other stories in this series for where those will be added). We’re so close to the end of the year, and it looks like, barring disaster, I’ll meet and make my challenge after all! Thank you to everyone who has read/left kudos/commented—it’s been so much more than I could honestly have expected!


	29. Beauregard: Bend Nor Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 2  
> Character: Beauregard Lionette
> 
> You heard what they said; but you knew what they meant…

They’d tried to crush her will, tried to force her to fit their mold, to fall in line and accept her place in the universal pecking order— _under_ them.

 _Do what we say,_ the world tried to tell the young girl, _and all will be well. Stray from the path we set and you will fail—fight us and we will crush you._

“Respect us,” the powerful said. (“Fear us,” they meant, and didn’t really bother to pretend otherwise.)

“Fuck you,” Beau spat back, and refused to budge, bend, break, or bow.

In the future, she would learn the strategic value of patience, and the time and place for restraint—would learn how much stronger she could make some of her blows with just a moment spent waiting for the best opening. She’d learn that choosing her battles was the fastest way of winning her war—so long as she fought the battles that she chose with every weapon she had at her disposal. (She learned just how many weapons that was...and how many more she had when she worked with others who had her back.)

She learned many lessons along the path she forged for herself, but her journey didn’t start with any of them. No, it started the day that Beauregard Lionette refused to cower or cave.

Close your eyes.

Deep breath.

Silence the fear—still your mind.

…

_Now punch their stupid face and stun them where they stand!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early entry this week, and on the weak side, I know; but I am finally moving this weekend, and prepping for that hasn’t left me a lot of free headspace for writing. Hopefully things get better from here on out! (though, with this ficlet, I have filled every lined page in my CR Journal—the Cobalt Soul One—that I got for Christmas and started writing in with the first chapter in this story!)


	30. Pike: Just a Peek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign :1  
> Character: Pike Trickfoot
> 
> She knew she was lying even as she made the promise…but why?

Why did Pike immediately read Scanlan’s letter?

It was a horrid breach of trust—not to mention her promise—and more what one would expect to happen in a reversal of their situation than the present one.

(Only, that wasn’t actually true, the cleric couldn’t help but think. Scanlan had never kept his feelings a secret, and some of his overtures may seem to lack propriety. But Pike knew that, when it came to her, there was a line that Scanlan didn’t cross: he’d flirt and find any excuse to be near her, but there was a point he’d go no further when she didn’t reciprocate, he’d made a passage between heir rooms, but would not use it unless she allowed it. If _she_ had given _him_ a letter to be opened after her death, he wouldn’t have opened it—but he would’ve done everything in his power to ensure that he would never has cause or circumstance to.)

Maybe that was it.

Scanlan was _not_ in his usual headspace, however hard he was pretending otherwise (and, oh, how _hard_ he as trying to, doubling down on old acts and pretenses—and isn’t that what they always had been?), and now here he was in a rare glimpse of honesty and words of ‘when I die’ and ‘after I’m gone’. She _couldn’t_ forgive herself if she ignored those warning signs and a clue was right there in an envelope with her name on it.

She read it once, twice, three times carefully, parsing out the phrases, looking for any signs that the bard’s confrontation with his own mortality was anything other than metaphorical (for lack of better word), and even as she tucked it away and crawled into the ridiculous (wonderful) bed the bard had fabricated for her, a part of her still worried.

At the moment, though, what else could she do?

(Well, maybe she could spare some mental energy from worrying and turn it towards musing over why Scanlan’s declaration of his feelings in the letter—not his first, and she’d always known he was at least somewhat honest about how he felt towards her—made her feel different this time…)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I’m back! Sorry for the long break, but given that I’d be doing a CR ficlet everyday of October, I decided to focus on my other fic collections for the weekly Saturday posts in the meantime (MCU, PJ/KC/MC, and a Star Trek/Pokemon crossover, if you’re interested), but now I’m back! Just a few more chapters/weeks here, so I’m excited that I likely will see this through to the end! (52 ficlets in a year is certainly the biggest fanfic challenge I have given myself, especially considering that I still participated in CRInktober.)
> 
> Anyhow, thanks for all the support, views, kudos, and comment—they really make my day!


	31. Caleb: Child’s Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 2  
> Character: Caleb Widogast
> 
> Once, he had been happy… Once, he had played…

When Bren Aldric Ermendrud was young, he played.

He played and laughed with his friends in the carefree way of small children, and at home he joked and sang and played with his parents, reveling in their smiles and their stories—their joy and their love.

When Bren Aldric Ermendrud grew older, he stopped playing.

Not at first, of course—even at the Academy, with its hours of lectures and studying (…and… _mentoring sessions…_ ), there was still time to unwind, and oh, how they needed it. But it grew ever harder and harder to find the time and motivation to joke and relax as they once had, the three of them, and by the time Trent took them away for their most intense training, all there was was this work.

When Caleb Widogast escaped the Asylum, he did not play.

It was hard enough—took all of his time and effort—just to get enough food or money to survive. Then there was his goal, his one chance, his one desire: and surely anything that did _not_ further it was a shameful waste. And besides, what right did _he_ have to be happy, to have fun? Life was his sentence, his penance, not a game. He would not— _could_ not—enjoy it.

When Caleb Widogast began to heal, he played again.

Slowly, hesitantly; but he did open up to these people, they to him, and the like between the mask he wore and the heart he hid grew blurred, obscured, vanishing bit by bit. He joked again, if awkwardly, for now there were smiles around him once more that he loved to see. He played again—in snow, on islands, in animal forms and in magical towers—because, quite without realizing how it had happened, he had friends, _family_ , to play with again.

(Dumping them into a snow bank seemed like a good place to start.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d meant to write a happier one than this, but when the time came to write, I realized what stuck out to me the most about Caleb taking the time for these little light moments with the others now is the marked change form how it used to be, and how it must’ve been under Trent. And from that came the more melancholic piece (hopefully with a happier ending!)
> 
> So, there’s only one chapter left to go in this story, but it will be a while until it’s posted, for a couple of reasons. 1) This whole series is a part of a challenge to myself to write at least one ficlet a week, and I thought it would be neat for the first and last fics to be form the same fandom, so I’m waiting to write the final chapter (Grog’s second) to go up on the 26th of December. 2) I’m going to be doing another daily fic challenge December 1-25th, like last year’s Critmas Fic challenge (but this time, featuring the Mighty Nein), so while I’m working on that, I want to vary what fandoms I’m doing for my weekly challenge, so like during CRInktober, I will be posting to my Marvel, Riordan-verse, and Pokemon/New Trek stories and finishing them up, too.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me (or jumping in at whatever point you did), it’s been a fun journey—see you back here on 12/26!


	32. Grog: The Fears You Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campaign: 1  
> Character: Grog Strongjaw
> 
> Fear is only natural…just take it from Vox Machina’s resident genius, Grog Strongjaw…

“Look, fear is—is only natural, see? Everybody’s afraid of something, an’ most are afraid of lots of things. Even me.

“I was always scared of Kevdak, even back when I was with the Herd, you know. An’ I stayed scared of him until the day I finally beat ‘im.

“‘M scared of other stuff, too. Fightin’ dragons and beholders was kind of tough—I wasn’t sacred of ‘em, really, but I _was_ scared that the others would get hurt or die doin’ it. As hard as I tried, bad stuff kept happenin’ to ‘em, or they kept leavin’, an’ I was afraid that one day, they wouldn’t come back…

“So, yeah—it’s okay to be scared, you just can’t let it _control_ you, see? Sometimes, you gotta press on an’ kill the dragon so it can’t kill your friends.

“But sometimes, it’s not sometihn’ you can fight—yeah? Or maybe you can someday, but not now. I _couldn’t_ beat Kevdak before, we couldn’t fight the dragons when they first came. What do you do then?

“You run. You hide. You get stronger. Yeah, you’ll go back someday, but right now, you stay alive an’ you keep your family safe. An’ yeah: you’re scared the whole time. An’ that’s fine.”

Young Willhand Shorthalt-Trickfoot stared up at his ‘Uncle Grog’ with wide eyes and nodded sagely as he took in the words of wisdom the goliath was imparting to him.

“Is that why we’re hiding here after we made that mess in Mama’s work room?”

Grog nodded, crouching a little lower as the sound of his best buddy calling their names resounded through the house. “Yeah, this isn’t one of the ones you can fight— _believe_ me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When assigning prompt to the various characters and weeks, I thought it would be fun to give Grog ‘fear’ because it’s sometimes hard to remember what, if anything, scares our favorite goliath, (and also because that would mean starting and ending this fic series with the same prompt). But after the year we had, I didn’t want to end this writing challenge on a downer note, hence the lighthearted-take!
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who followed, reviewed, left kudos, or just stopped in to read—I can’t believe that I actually finished this challenge, and I KNOW I couldn’t have done it without your encouragement. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.


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